he is gone.

He is dead & gone, lady. He is dead & gone; At his head a grass green turf, at his heels a stone. Pray you, mark. White his shroud as the mountain snow. Larded with sweet flowers, which bewept to the grave did go; with true-love showers. Well God 'ild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! Pray you, let's have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning bedtime, A I a maid at our window, To be our Valentine. Then up he rose, & he donn'd his clothes, & dupp'd the chamber-door; Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. Indeed, la, without an oath, I'll make an end on't: By Gis & by Saint Charity, Alack, & fie for shame! Young men will do't, if they come to't; By cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promised me to wed. So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed. They bore him barefaced on the bier; Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; & in his grave rain'd many a tear:-- Fare you well, my dove! You must sing a-down a-down, An you call him a-down-a. O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. There's rosemary, thats for remembrance; pray, love, remember: & there is pansies. that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, & columbines: there's rue for you; & here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end,-- For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. & will he not come again? & will he not come again? No, no, he is dead: Go to thy death-bed: He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll: He is gone, he is gone, & we cast away moan: God ha' mercy on his soul! & of all Christian souls, I pray God.

God be wi' ye.