Verse > Anthologies > T. H. Ward, ed. > The English Poets > Vol. I. Chaucer to Donne
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Thomas Humphry Ward, ed.  The English Poets.  1880–1918.
Vol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
 
A Dirge
By Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)
 
RING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread;
For Love is dead:
  All Love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain:
  Worth, as nought worth, rejected,        5
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!        10
 
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 wholly;        15
His sole executor, blame.
  From so ungrateful fancy,
  From such a female frenzy,
  From them that use men thus,
  Good Lord, deliver us!        20
 
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,
For Love is dead;
  Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress’ marble heart;
  Which epitaph containeth,        25
‘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!        30
 
Alas, I lie: rage hath this error bred;
Love is not dead;
  Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatchèd mind,
  Where she his counsel keepeth,        35
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!        40
 
 
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