Sonnet 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.
  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.