What then is loue but mourning?
    What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth loue returne,
Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
    Come away, come away, my darling.

Beautie is but a blooming,
    Youth in his glorie entombing ;
Time hath a while, which none can stay :
Then come away, while thus I sing,
    Come away, come away, my darling.

Sommer in winter fadeth ;
    Gloomie night heaun'ly light shadeth :
Like to the morne are Venus flowers ;
Such are her howers : then will I sing,
    Come away, come away, my darling.