SONNET 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.
William Shakespeare
