John Ford (1586–c. 1640)

OH no more, no more, too late

Sighs are spent; the burning tapers

Of a life as chaste as fate,

Pure as are unwritten papers,

Are burnt out; no heat, no light

Now remains; ’tis ever night.

Love is dead; let lovers’ eyes

Locked in endless dreams,

Th’ extremes of all extremes,

Ope no more, for now Love dies,

Now Love dies—implying

Love’s martyrs must be ever, ever dying.