55. A Dirge

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,

And Faith, fair scorn doth gain.

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female franzy,

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 exec’tor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female franzy,

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 franzy,

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 unmatchèd mind,

Where she his counsel keepeth,

Till due deserts she find.

Therefore from so vile fancy,

To call such wit a franzy,

Who Love can temper thus,

Good Lord, deliver us!