The Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics/Book 1/Poem 49

by William Shakespeare

For other versions of this work, see Sonnet 71 (Shakespeare).

xlix

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

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.
W. Shakespeare