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No longer mourn for me when I am dead

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Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

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Give warning to the world that I am fled

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From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

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Nay, if you read this line, remember not

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The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

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That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

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If thinking on me then should make you woe.

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O! if,—I say, you look upon this verse,

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When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

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Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

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But let your love even with my life decay;

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Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

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And mock you with me after I am gone.