---

Philip Sidney - Ring Out Your Bells
Work rating: Low

     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!
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.