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.
Oh if, I say, you look upon the 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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