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.