The poem
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.