POESIE

William Shakespeare
Sonnet 71

No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
Then 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.

HERE the Italian version

Read by Jamie Muffett

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