“Are you ready, sir?Orsino. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music] 945SONG.Feste. Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 950My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet 955On my black coffin let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where 960Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!Orsino. There's for thy pains.Feste. No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.Orsino. I'll pay thy pleasure then. 965Feste. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.”