What then is loue but mourning?

What then is loue but mourning?
What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth loue returne,
Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Beautie is but a blooming,
Youth in his glorie entombing;
Time hath a while, which none can stay:
Then come away, while thus I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Sommer in winter fadeth;
Gloomie night heaun’ly light shadeth:
Like to the morne are Venus flowers;
Such are her howers : then will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

(3 votes, average: 2,00 out of 5)

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