O! lest 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 desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O! lest 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 so should you, to love things nothing worth.
In plain English
Don't let the world ask you to explain why you loved me. After I'm gone, please forget me completely—because honestly, there's nothing in me worth your love. The only way you could defend it would be to lie, to make me sound better than I actually was, to praise my memory more generously than the plain truth allows.
If you did that, your real love would look false. You'd be speaking well of me just to be kind, and that would cheapen what you feel. So let my name die with my body. Let me have no life after death—not to protect me from shame, but to protect you from it too.
I'm ashamed of what I produce, of who I am. You shouldn't have to carry that shame by loving someone worthless.
