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68
SON. 71
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.
Ol if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor nåme 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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