William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
A Dirge: Love Is DeadSir Philip Sidney (15541586)
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 franzy,
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 holy;
His sole exec’tor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
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 franzy,
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 franzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!