What then is Love but Mourning

What then is love but mourning?

What desire but a self-burning?

Till she that hates doth love return

Thus I will mourn, thus will I sing,

Come away, come away, my darling.

Beauty is but a blooming,

Youth in his glory entombing;

Time hath a while which none can stay,

Then come away, while I thus sing,

Come away, come away, my darling.

Summer in winter fadeth,

Gloomy night heav'nly light shadeth,

Like to the morn are Venus' flowers,

Such are her hours, then will I sing,

Come away, come away, my darling.