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Ring Out Your Bells

by
 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!

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