Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
Sir Philip Sidney (15541586)A Dirge
R
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!
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!
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!
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!