Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/207

 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.

134. Dirge

Come 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 coffin 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!

134. cypres] crape. 135. Under the Greenwood Tree

Amiens sings:

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat,