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