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Astrophels Loue is dead.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Astrophels Loue is dead.

Ring out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread,
For Loue is dead.
All loue is dead infected
With plague of deepe disdaine:
Worth as nought worth reiected,
And saith faire scorne doth gaine.
From so vngratefull fancie,
From such a femall frenzie,
From them that vse men thus:
Good Lord deliuer vs.


Weepe neighbours weepe, doe you not heare it saide
That Loue is dead?
His death-bed Peacocks follie,
His winding sheete is shame:
His will false, seeming holie,
His sole exectour blame.
From so vngratefull fancie,
From such a female frenzie,
From them that vse men thus:
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:
Which Epitaph containeth,
Her eyes were once his Dart.
From so vngratefull fancie,
From such a female frenzie,
From them that vse men thus:
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:
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:
Good Lord deliuer vs.
FINIS.
Sir. Phil. Sidney.