No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From 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 ten should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this vers 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
