Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chaunt it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.
SONG.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;