[Come away, come away, death]1,
  And in sad cypress 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!]2
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]3;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
  My poor corpse, where my bones shall be [thrown]4:
[A thousand, thousand sighs to save,]5
  Lay me, O where
[Sad true]6 lover never find my grave,
  [To weep there!]7

V. Fine sets stanza 1

About the headline (FAQ)

View original text (without footnotes)
¹ Fortner: "Death, come away, come away"
² Dring: "Come prepare it"
³ Leguerney: "thrown"; Wilkinson: "strewn"
⁴ Leguerney: "strown"
⁵ Korngold: "A thousand sighs to save,"; omitted by Argento.
⁶ Korngold: "True"
⁷ Amram: "did share it." [mistake?]

Text Authorship:

• by William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), no title, appears in Twelfth Night: or, What You Will, Act II, scene 4

See other settings of this text.

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

• DUT Dutch (Nederlands) (Jan Jonk) , "Kom toch gauw, kom toch gauw, dood", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
• FIN Finnish (Suomi) (Paavo Cajander)
• GER German (Deutsch) [singable] (David Paley) , "Komm herbei, komm herbei, Tod", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
• ITA Italian (Italiano) (Paolo Montanari) , "Vieni, o morte", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
• NOR Norwegian (Bokmål) (Marianne Beate Kielland) , "Kom hit, kom nå hit, død", copyright © 2009, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
• POL Polish (Polski) (Józef Komierowski) , no title

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 16
Word count: 99

Kom nu kun, kom nu kun, død!
Svøp meg inn i ditt sorte sørgeslør!
Fly min sjel, fly fra livets nød,
ved den deiliges grumhet jeg dør.
Min hvite drakt med buksbom på, 
å bered den,
en død som den, jeg lite må 
ingen led den.

Ingen blomst, ingen skjønn blomst
må strøs til pryd på min kistes sorte fjel;
ingen venn, ingen venn stå
ved min båre med sorgfullt farvel.
...
For gråt at spare bygg 
med flid skjult min rede,
at ingen elsker dit kan gå for at grede.