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 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 Executor, Blame. From So Ungrateful Fancy; From Such A Female Frenzy; 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 Frenzy; 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 Deserts She Find. Therefore From So Vile Fancy, To Call Such Wit A Frenzy: Who Love Can Temper Thus, Good Lord, Deliver Us.