Sir Philip Sidney

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…

When Nature made her chief work,
Stella's eyes,
In color black why wrapp'd she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise

In highest way of heav'n the Sun did ride,
Progressing then from fair twins' golden place:
Having no scarf of clouds before his face,
But shining forth of heat in his chief pride;

The heavenly frame sets forth the fame Of him that only thunders;
The firmament, so strangely bent,
Shows his handworking wonders.
Day unto day doth it display

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain:
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;

In truth, oh Love, with what a boyish kind Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways:
That when the heav'n to thee his best displays,
Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind.
For like a child that some fair book doth find

The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in…

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbed shot Love gave the wound, which while I breathe will bleed;
But known worth did in mine of time proceed,
Till by degrees it had full conquest got:
I saw and liked,

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…

Whether the Turkish new moon minded be To fill his horns this year on Christian coast;
How Poles' right king means, with leave of host,
To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy;
If French can yet three parts in one agree;

Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me:
I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill,
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside…

Though dusty wits dare scorn astrology,
And fools can think those lamps of purest light Whose numbers, ways, greatness, eternity,
Promising wonders, wonder do invite,
To have for no cause birthright in the sky,

In nature apt to like when I did see Beauties, which were of many carats fine,
My boiling sprites did thither soon incline,
And,
Love,

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;

Fly, fly, my friends,
I have my death wound; fly!
See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,
Who like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie

His mother dear Cupid offended late,
Because that Mars grown slacker in her love,
With pricking shot he did not throughly more To keep the pace of their first loving state.
The boy refus'd for fear of Mars's hate

You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary's method bring Into your…

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;
For Love is dead—
All love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain;

Leave me,
O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;

Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face,
Prepar'd by Nature's choicest furniture,
Hath his front built of alabaster pure;
Gold in the covering of that stately place.

Who hath his fancy pleased  With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised  On Nature's sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever  And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,  Is cause the looker dies.

I might!—unhappy word—O me,
I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;
Till now wrapt in a most infernal night

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;

Some lovers speak when they their Muses entertain,
Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires:
Of force of heav'nly beams, infusing hellish pain:
Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires.