No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then 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 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.
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Shakespeare's Sonnets:
