When I am dead you'll write - I know you will -
 A thoughtful sonnet on my early death, 
 In which, stating that life but wearieth, 
 You'll notice how I lie pale, cold, and stil
 This in the quatrains, which likewise you'll fill 
 With some reflections on how soon goes breath 
 And how the cold and heavy earth beneath 
 There is an end to living, good or il
 After this, in the tercets, you will say 
 That death's a mystery, that nought doth stay, 
 Perhaps that immortality is tru
 Then you will sign and put the date to i
 And, having read again the sonnet, you 
 Will be content, seeing it is well wri