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 then should make you woe. Oh, 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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