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SKETCHES.
17
SONG.
MY silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air
By love are driven away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was't given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worshipp'd tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe 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!
D
