Sonnet 21 Your Words My Friend
Your words, my friend, (right healthful caustics) blame My young mind marr'd, whom Love doth windlass so,
That mine own writings like bad servants show My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;
That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame Such doltish gyres; that to my birth I owe Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,
Great Expectation, were a train of shame.
For since mad March great promise made of me,
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest time will be?
Sure you say well, "Your wisdom's golden mine,
Dig deep with learning's spade." Now tell me this,
Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?
Sir Philip Sidney
Other author posts
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Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place, Forc'd by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart, And pleas'd with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race But f...
Psalm 139
O Lord in me there lieth nought But to thy search revealed lies; For when I sit Thou markest it: Nor less thou notest when I rise: Yea, closest closet of my thought Hath open windows to thine eyes Thou walkest with me when I walk; When t...
Sonnet 30 Whether the Turkish New Moon
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Sonnet 41 Having This Day My Horse
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Town folks my strength; a dain...