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.
This vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.

Nay, if you read these lines, 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.

William Shakespeare

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