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.