| |
|
LXXI.
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.
|
|
|
