Come Death, I'd have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And Love-a Lad with broken wing; And Pity, too; The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing. ... Ay, Music hath small sense, And a tune's soon told, And Earth is old, And my poor wits are dense; Yet have I secrets, --dark, my dear, To breathe you all. Come near. And lest some hideous listener tells, I'll ring my bells.