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William Shakespeare - Dirge
Work rating: Medium

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 corse, 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!
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