No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms
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
If thinking on me then should make you
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
Lest the wise world should look into
And mock you with me after I am gone.