Philip Sidney (1554–86)

Louing in trueth, and fayne in verse my loue to show

Not at the first sight, nor with a dribbed shot

Let dainty wits crie on the Sisters nine

Vertue, alas, now let me take some rest

It is most true that eyes are form’d to serue

Some louers speake, when they their Muses entertaine

When Nature made her chief worke, Stellas eyes

Loue, borne in Greece, of late fled from his natiue place

Queen Virtues Court, which some call Stellaes face

Reason, in faith thou art well seru’d that still

In truth, O Loue, with what a boyish kind

Cupid, because thou shin’st in Stellaes eyes

Phoebus was iudge betweene Ioue, Mars, and Loue

Alas, haue I not pain enough, my friend

You that do search for euery purling spring

In nature, apt to like, when I did see

His mother deere, Cupid offended late

With what sharp checkes I in myself am shent

On Cupids bowe how are my heart-strings bent

Fly, fly, my friends; I haue my deaths wound, fly

Your words, my friend, (right healthfull caustiks), blame

In highest way of heau’n the Sun did ride

The curious wits, seeing dull pensiuenesse

Rich fooles there be whose base and filthy heart

The wisest scholler of the wight most wise

Though dustie wits dare scorne Astrologie

Because I oft in darke abstracted guise

You that with Allegories curious frame

Like some weak lords neighbord by mighty kings

Whether the Turkish new moone minded be

With how sad steps, O Moone, thou climbst the skies!

Morpheus, the liuely sonne of deadly Sleepe

I might (vnhappy word!) O me, I might

Come, let me write. And to what end? To ease

What may words say, or what may words not say

Stella, whence doth these new assaults arise

My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell

This night, while sleepe begins with heauy wings

Come, Sleepe! O Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace

As good to write, as for to lie and grone

Hauing this day my horse, my hand, my launce

O eyes, which do the spheres of beauty moue

Faire eyes, sweet lips, dear heart, that foolish I

My words I know do well set forth my minde

Stella oft sees the very face of wo

I curst thee oft, I pitie now thy case

What, haue I thus betray’d my libertie

Soules ioy, bend not those morning starres from me

I on my horse, and Loue on me, doth trie

Stella, the fullnesse of my thoughts of thee

Pardon mine ears, both I and they do pray

A strife is growne between Vertue and Loue

In martiall sports I had my cunning tride

Because I breathe not loue to euery one

Muses, I oft inuoked your holy ayde

Fy, schoole of Patience, fy! your Lesson is

Who hauing made, with many fights, his owne

Doubt there hath beene when with his golden chaine

Deere, why make you more of a dog then me

When my good Angell guides me to the place

Oft with true sighs, oft with vncalled teares

Late tyr’d with wo, euen ready for to pine

O grammer-rules, O now your vertues show

No more, my deare, no more these counsels trie

Loue, by sure proofe I may call thee vnkind

And do I see some cause a hope to feede

Hope, art thou true, or doest thou flatter me

Stella, the onely planet of my light

O ioy to high for my low stile to show

My Muse may well grudge at my heau’nly ioy

Who will in fairest booke of Nature know

Desire, though thou my old companion art

Loue, still a Boy, and oft a wanton is

I neuer dranke of Aganippe well

Of all the Kings that euer here did raigne

She comes, and streight therewith her shining twins do moue

Those lookes, whose beames be ioy, whose motion is delight

O how the pleasant ayres of true loue be

Sweet kisse, thy sweets I faine would sweetly endite

Sweet-swelling lip, well maist thou swell in pride

O kisse, which dost those ruddie gemmes impart

Nymph of the garden where all beauties be

Good brother Philip, I haue borne you long

High way, since you my chiefe Pernassus be

I see the house, (my heart thy selfe containe!)

Alas, whence came this change of lookes? If I

When I was forst from Stella euer deere

Out, traytor Absence, dar’st thou counsell me

Now that of absence the most irksom night

Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame

Stella, while now, by Honours cruell might

Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware

O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my blisse!

Griefe, find the words; for thou hast made my braine

Yet sighes, deare sighs, indeede true friends you are

Thought, with good cause thou lik’st so well the night

Dian, that faine would cheare her friend the Night

Ah, bed! the field where Ioyes peace some do see

When far-spent Night perswades each mortall eye

O teares! no teares, but raine, from Beauties skies

Stella is sicke, and in that sicke-bed lies

Where be those roses gone, which sweetned so our eyes?

O happie Thames, that didst my Stella beare!

Enuious wits, what hath bene mine offence

Vnhappie sight, and hath shee vanisht by

O absent presence! Stella is not here

Stella, since thou so right a princesse art

When Sorrow (vsing mine owne fiers might)

Thou blind mans marke, thou fooles selfe-chosen snare

Leaue, me, O loue which reachest but to dust