The Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics/Book 1/Poem 49
For other versions of this work, see Sonnet 71 (Shakespeare).
No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world, that I am fledFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
xlix
THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH
Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it; for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgotIf thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if, I say, you look upon this verseWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay;