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 unmatchéd 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. STANZAS TO LOVE. AH, poor Love, why dost thou live, Thus to see thy service lost; If she will no comfort give, Make an end, yield up the ghost! That she may, at length, approve That she hardly long believed, That the heart will die for love That is not in time relieved. Oh, that ever I was born Service so to be refused; Faithful love to be forborn! Never love was so abused. But, sweet Love, be still awhile; She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee; Sweet! I see within her smile More than reason can reveal thee. For, though she be rich and fair, Yet she is both wise and kind, And, therefore, do thou not despair But thy faith may fancy find. Yet, although she be a queen That may such a snake despise, Yet, with silence all unseen, Run, and hide thee in her eyes: Where if she will let thee die, Yet at latest gasp of breath, Say that in a lady’s eye Love both took his life and death. A REMEDY FOR LOVE. PHILOCLEA and Pamela sweet, By chance, in one great house did meet; And meeting, did so join in heart, That th’ one from th’ other could not part: And who indeed (not made of stones) Would separate such lovely ones? The one is beautiful, and fair As orient pearls and rubies are; And sweet as, after gentle showers, The breath is of some thousand flowers: For due proportion, such an air Circles the other, and so fair, That it her brownness beautifies, And doth enchant the wisest eyes. Have you not seen, on some great day, Two goodly horses, white and bay, Which were so beauteous in their pride, You knew not which to choose or ride? Such are these two; you scarce can tell, Which is the daintier bonny belle; And they are such, as, by my troth, I had been sick with love of both, And might have sadly said, ‘Good-night Discretion and good fortune quite;’ But that young Cupid, my old master, Presented me a sovereign plaster: Mopsa! ev’n Mopsa! (precious pet) Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet, Are spells and charms of strong defence, To conjure down concupiscence.