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LXXII.
O,
lest the world should task you to recite
What merit
lived in me, that you should love
After my death,
dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing
worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous
lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And
hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth
would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may
seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of
me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And
live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed
by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to
love things nothing worth.
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