My silks and fine array

My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air,
By love are driv'n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave T
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heav'n
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was't given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worship'd tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding-sheet;
When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!