How ill doth he deserve a lover's name, Whose pale weak flame Cannot retain His heat, in spite of absence or disdain;
But doth at once, like paper set on fire, Burn and expire;
True love can never change his seat,
Nor did her ever love, that could retreat.
That noble flame which my breast keeps alive Shall still survive When my soul's fled;
Nor shall my love die when my body's dead,
That shall wait on me to the lower shade, And never fade;
My very ashes in their urn Shall, like a hallow'd lamp, forever burn.
