شکسپیر

NO LOGER MOURN FOR ME

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 ten should make you woe.

O, if, I say, you look upon this vers 

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*1564- 1616