The most romantic love poems


Love is Dead

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Ring out your bells, let mourning shews 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 executor, 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 his 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!

Sir Philip Sidney (1554 – 1586)


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