William Shakespeare, Sonnet lxxi
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
4
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,
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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;
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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.