No longer mourn for me when I dead /
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell /
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 with my life decay, /
Lest the wise world should look into your moan /
And mock you with me after I am gone.
William Shakespeare, sad, beautiful and truthful.
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