Tis Safter To Be That Which We

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypress 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 Strewn: Not A Friend, Not A Friend Greet My Poor Corpse, 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!

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

While We Lie Tumbling In The Hay.

Your Hearts Are Mighty, Your Skins Are Whole.

A Plague On Both Your Houses.