Ma pauvre Cécile

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.

William Shakespeare, sonnet 71 (traduction sur demande).