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.
O if, I say, you look upon this 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.
In plain English
Don't grieve for me after I die. Once the funeral bell tolls and the world knows I'm gone, stop thinking of me. In fact, forget you ever read these words or knew my hand wrote them—because I love you so much that I can't bear the thought of my memory making you suffer.
When you look back at these lines someday, years after I've turned to dust, don't even say my name aloud. Let your affection for me fade naturally, the way everything else does. The reason is simple and protective: if the world sees you mourning me, they'll use that grief as ammunition to ridicule you long after I'm dead.
