Classic Poem

XX.
What thing is love but mourning?
What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth love 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 wheel which none can stay:
Then come away, while thus I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

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