No longer mourn for me when I am dead,Than you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world that I am fledFrom this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay if you read this line, remember not,The hand that writ it, for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;But let your love even with my life decay.
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.
