Astrophel's Love is dead

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 frenzy,
From them that use men thus.
Good Lord deliver us!

Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not her it said
That Love is dead?
His deathbed 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 frenzy.
From them that use men thus.
Good Lord deliver us I
Let dirge be sung and trentals richly read.
For Love is dead!
And 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 has this error bred.
Love is not dead.
Love is not dead but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind:
Where she his counsel keepeth,
Tell due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a frenzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord deliver us!