| |
| RING out your bells! let mourning shows be spread, | |
| For LOVE is dead. | |
| All love is dead, infected | |
| With the 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 deathbed, 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 dirige 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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