To live without him: liked it not, and died.
Sir Henry Wotton (Reliquiae Wottonianae, 1685).
Is the yellow bird dead?
Lay your dear little head
Close, close to my heart, and weep, precious one, there,
While your beautiful hair
On my bosom lies light, like a sun-lighted cloud;
No, you need not keep still,
You may sob as you will;