My silks and fine array,<br>
My smiles and languish’d air,<br>
By love are driv’n away;<br>
And mournful lean Despair<br>
Brings me yew to deck my grave;<br>
Such end true lovers have.<br>
His face is fair as heav’n<br>
When springing buds unfold;<br>
O why to him was’t giv’n<br>
Whose heart is wintry cold?<br>
His breast is love’s all-worshipp’d tomb,<br>
Where all love’s pilgrims come.<br>
Bring me an axe and spade,<br>
Bring me a winding sheet;<br>
When I my grave have made<br>
Let winds and tempests beat:<br>
Then down I’ll lie as cold as clay.<br>
True love doth pass away!