Do not mourn for me when I am dead longer
Than the sound of the surly funeral bell that you hear
That announces to the world that I have fled
From dwelling in this low world with the lowest worms:
No, if you read this line, do not remember
The hand that wrote it, for I love you so much
That I would rather be forgotten by your sweet thoughts
If thinking about me would cause you sadness.
Oh if, I say, you look at this poem
When I am perhaps mingling with clay,
Do not repeat so much as my poor name,
But let your love decay with my life,
So that the wise world doesn't investigate your moaning
And mock you for your association with me after I am gone.