Dirge

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread,     For Love is dead:     All Love is dead, infected     With plague of deep disdain:     Worth, as nought worth, rejected,     And faith fair scorn doth gain.     From so ungrateful fancy;     From such a female frenzy;     From them that use men thus,     Good Lord, deliver us.     Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said     That Love is dead:     His death-bed, peacock's folly:     His winding-sheet is shame;     His will, false-seeming holy,     His sole executor, blame.     From so ungrateful fancy;     From such a female frenzy;     From them that use men thus,     Good Lord, deliver us.     Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,     For Love is dead:     Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth     My mistress' marble heart;     Which epitaph containeth,     "Her eyes were once his dart."     From so ungrateful fancy;     From such a female frenzy;     From them that use men thus,     Good Lord, deliver us.     Alas! I lie:    rage hath this error bred;     Love is not dead,     Love is not dead, but sleepeth     In her unmatched mind:     Where she his counsel keepeth     Till due deserts she find.     Therefore from so vile fancy,     To call such wit a frenzy:     Who Love can temper thus,     Good Lord, deliver us.