WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty !

Youth 's a stuff will not endure.

234. "Dirge

ME 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 cofHn 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 !

t3T' Under the Greenwood Tree

Amiens sings :

T TNDER the greenwood tree, ^ Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

• 34> cypres] crape.

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