endeth?
To you! to you! all song of praise is due:
Only in you my song begins and endeth."

Nor is its promise belied by those which follow, and which are among the
earliest and the most charming of the rich literature of songs that really
are songs--songs to music--which the age was to produce. All the scanty
remnants of his other verse are instinct with the same qualities,
especially the splendid dirge, "Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be
spread," and the pretty lines "to the tune of Wilhelmus van Nassau." I must
quote the first:--

"Ring out your bells! let mourning shows be spread,
For Love is dead.
All love is dead, infected
With the plague of deep disdain;
Worth as nought worth rejected.
And faith, fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!

"Weep, neighbours, weep! Do you not hear it said
That Love is dead?
His deathbed, peacock's Folly;
His winding-sheet is Shame;
His will, False Seeming wholly;
His sole executor, Blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female frenzy,
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 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 unmatched 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!"

The verse from the _Arcadia_ (which contains a great deal of verse) has
been perhaps injuriously affected in the general judgment by the fact that
it includes experiments in the impossible classical metres. But both it and
the Translations from the Psalms express the same poetical faculty employed
with less directness a