Ring Out Your Bells Poem Text

Ring Out Your Bells Poem Text

Ring Out Your Bells


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!

- Sir Philip Sidney

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