Sonnet Lxxi

William Shakespeare

     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.

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