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.
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.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 147: My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still
- Sonnet 151: Love Is Too Young To Know What Conscience Is
- Sonnet 28: How Can I Then Return In Happy Plight
- Sonnet 15: When I Consider Every Thing That Grows
- Sonnet 104: To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old