Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
Sonnet lxxxi.
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
Sonnet lxxxvii.
Do not drop in for an after-loss.