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| No longer mourn for me when I am dead | 1 |
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| Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell |
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| Give warning to the world that I am fled |
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| From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: |
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| Nay, if you read this line, remember not | 5 |
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| The hand that writ it, for I love you so, |
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| That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, |
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| If thinking on me then should make you woe. |
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| O! if,—I say you look upon this verse, |
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| When I perhaps compounded am with clay, | 10 |
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| Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; |
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| But let your love even with my life decay; |
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 Lest the wise world should look into your moan, |
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| And mock you with me after I am gone. |
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