William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

SHE looks upon his lips, and they are pale;

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,

As if they heard the woeful words she told;

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,

Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

Two glasses where herself herself beheld

A thousand times, and now no more reflect;

Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d,

And every beauty robb’d of his effect:

‘Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘this is my spite,

That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.’