Knights of Troubled Love

 ( excerpts ) 

Ring out your bells, 
  Let mourning shows be spread
For love is dead,
  Infected with plague 
Of deep disdain.
  Worth, as nought worth,
Rejected, and faith
  Fair scorn doth gain. 

Weep, neighbour weep,
  Do you not hear it said,
That love is dead,
  All love is dead. 
His death is peacock's folly,
  His winding sheet is shame,
His will false-seeming holy,
  His sole executor blame.

Ring out your bells,
  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 my dart."

        Sir Philip Sidney 

Hate whom ye list for I care not.  
Love whom ye list and spare not.
Wherefore I say, do what ye list and dread not,
Love whom ye list for I care not,
Think what you will I care not.  

Whether ye love or ye love not,
For in your love I dote not.
Wherefore I pray ye forget not,
Love whom ye list for I care not.

        Sir Thomas Wyatt