Classic Poem

Ring out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread;
For Loue is dead:
All Loue is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdaine:
Worth, as nought worth, reiected,
And Faith faire scorne doth gaine.
From so vngrateful fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that vse men thus,
Good Lord, deliuer us!

Weepe, neighbours, weepe; do you not heare it said
That Loue is dead?
His death-bed, peacock's follie;
His winding-sheete is shame;
His will, false-seeming holie;
His sole exec'tour, blame.
From so vngrateful fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that vse men thus,
Good Lord, deliuer us!

Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,
For Loue is dead;
Sir Wrong his tombe ordaineth
My mistress' marble heart;
Which epitaph containeth,
" Her eyes were once his dart."
From so vngratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that vse men thus,
Good Lord, deliuer us!

Alas, I lie: rage hath this errour bred;
Loue is not dead;
Loue is not dead, but sleepeth
In her vnmatched mind,
Where she his counsell keepeth,
Till due deserts she find.
Therefore from so vile fancie,
To call such wit a franzie,
Who Loue can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliuer us!