Page:Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics.djvu/43

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My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death no one so trueDid share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweetOn my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O whereSad true lover never find my grave.To weep there.W. Shakespeare


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Fear no more the heat o’ the sunNor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone and ta’en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flashNor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.W. Shakespeare
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