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Dirge of Love

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, oh, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
� To weep there.
--W. Shakespeare