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.