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.