Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

A Dirge

RING out your bells, let mourning shews 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 frenzy,

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 wholly;

His sole executor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female frenzy,

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 frenzy,

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 unmatchèd mind,

Where she his counsel keepeth,

Till due deserts she find.

Therefore from so vile fancy,

To call such wit a frenzy,

Who Love can temper thus,

Good Lord, deliver us!