Ring Out Your Bells

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 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 unmatched mind,    Where she his counsel keepeth,  Till due desert she find.    Therefore from so vile fancy,    To call such wit a franzy,    Who Love can temper thus,    Good Lord, deliver us!