Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Various - Страница 72

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Come away, come away, Death,

And in sad cypres let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet

On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

W. Shakespeare