text: 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 franzy,
  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 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!
  
  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 franzy,
  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 unmatched mind,
  Where she his counsel keepeth,
  Till due desert she find.
  Therefore from so vile fancy,
  To call such wit a franzy,
  Who Love can temper thus,
  Good Lord, deliver us!