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Now the wasted brands do glow;
IN TWELFTH NICHT.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid; In the churchway paths to glide;
Fly away, fly away, breath, And we Fairies, that do run
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. By the triple Hecat's team,
My shroud of wbite, stuck all with yew, From the presence of the Sun,
O prepare it; Following darkness like a dream,
My part of death no one so true Now are frolic; not a mouse
Did share it. Shall disturb this' hallow'd house:
Not a flower, not a flower sweet I am sent with broom before
On my black coffin let there be strown; To sweep the dust behind the door.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be throwt: A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O! where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,
To weep there!