No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you fhall hear the furly fullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vileft 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 fay, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not fo much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Left the wife world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
O, left the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own defert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart :
O, left your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And fo fhould you, to love things nothing worth.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang.
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds fang.
In me thou fee'ft the twilight of such day,
As after funfet fadeth in the weft;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's fecond self, that seals up all in reft.
In me thou fee'ft the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Confumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line fome interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou doft review
The very part was confecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou haft but loft the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold fuch ftrife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may fee my pleasure :
Sometime, all full with feafting on your fight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Poffeffing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and furfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
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