From two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the Pepys Collection; the other in the British Museum.
To the tune of The Lady's Fall.
Come mourne, come mourne with mee,
You loyall lovers all;
Lament my loss in weeds of woe,
Whom griping grief doth thrall.
Like to the drooping vine, 5
Cut by the gardener's knife,
Even so my heart, with sorrow slaine,
Doth bleed for my sweet wife.
By death, that grislye ghost,
My turtle dove is slaine, 10
And I am left, unhappy man,
To spend my dayes in paine.
Her beauty late so bright,
Like roses in their prime,
Is wasted like the mountain snowe, 15
Before warme Phebus' shine.
Her faire red colour'd cheeks
Now pale and wan; her eyes,
That late did shine like crystal stars;
Alas, their light it dies: 20
Her prettye lilly hands,
With fingers long and small,
In colour like the earthly claye,
Yea, cold and stiff withall.