My smiles and languish'd air，

    By love are driv'n away；

    And mournful lean Despair

    Brings me yew¹ to deck my grave；

    Such end true lovers have.

    His face is fair as heav'n

    When springing buds unfold；

    O why to him was't giv'n

    Whose heart is wintry cold？

    His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb，

    Where all love's pilgrims come.

    Bring me an axe² and spade，

    Bring me a winding-sheet；

    When I my grave have made

    Let winds and tempests beat：

    Then down I'll lie as cold as clay.

    True love doth pass away！