Song of the Clown (Twelfth Night)

Flee, my soul, flee! I die from the arrows

Of the cruelest of maidens.

Come, o death! Let them lay me out to the light of candles

In a coffin of black cypress.

Let them bury me far from her

In a white shroud covered with yew branches,

So that, sharing my fate, my sure friend - though late -

Will at least remain faithful to me.

Not one flower, one poor flower

Upon my grave should be strewn;

For me, no friend, no beloved voice

Should speak words of sorrow.

If only I could be alone with my grief,

And let my bones be bleached in the desert,

Lest upon my grave, alas, true lovers

Will shed too many vain tears.