Fear no more the frown o' th' great, To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor th' all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust. SHAKSPERE'S SONGS AND SONNETS. No longer mourn for me when I am dead. No longer mourn for me when I am dead, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, Lest the wise world should look into your moan, FINIS. EDMUND EVANS, ENGRAVER AND PRINTER, RAQUET COURT, FLEET ST. |