Weepe neighbours weepe, doe you not heare it saide That Loue is dead? His death-bed Peacocks follie, His winding sheete is shame: (15) His will false, seeming holie, His sole exectour blame. From so vngratefull fancie, From such a female frenzie, +From them that vse men thus: (20) Good Lord deliuer vs.
Let Dirge be sunge, and Trentals richly read, For Loue is dead. And wrong his Tombe ordaineth, My Mistresse marble hart: (25) Which Epitaph containeth, Her eyes were once his Dart. From so vngratefull fancie, From such a female frenzie, From them that vse men thus: (30) Good Lord deliuer vs.
Alas, I lye, rage hath this errour bred, Loue is not dead. Loue is not dead, but sleepeth In her vnmatched minde: (35) Where shee his counsell keepeth, Till due desert she find. Therefore from so vile fancie, To call such wit a frenzie, Who loue can temper thus: (40) Good Lord deliuer vs.
FINIS. Sir. Phil. Sidney.