Sir Philip Sidney

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history; If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree: In truth I sweare, I wish not there should be Graved in mine epitaph a Poet’s name: Nay if I would, could I just title make, That any laud to me thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others’ wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet More oft than to a chamber melody. Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet: My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed; By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot, Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed; And that you know I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,i Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.

Desire, though thou my old companion art, And oft so clings to my pure Love that I One from the other scarcely can descry, While each doth blow the fire of my heart, Now from thy fellowship I needs must part; Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly; I must no more in thy sweet passions lie; Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart. Service and honor, wonder with delight, Fear to offend, will worthy to appear, Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite: These things are let me by my only dear; But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all, Now banished art. But yet alas how shall?

Who will in fairest book of nature know How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be, Let him but learn of love to read in thee, Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show. There shall he find all vices' overthrow, Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly; That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so. And, not content to be perfection's heir Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move, Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair. So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love, As fast thy virtue bends that love to good: But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"

When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes, In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright? Would she in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light? Or did she else that sober hue devise, In object best to knit and strength our sight; Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise, They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight? Or would she her miraculous power show, That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary, She even in black doth make all beauties flow? Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed To honour all their deaths who for her bleed.

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; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case, But do not will me from my love to fly. I do not envy Aristotle's wit, Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; Nor aught do care though some above me sit; Nor hope nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show; So children still read read To discern and discover you with awful awful Archaic term for “awe-filled”. eyes, As my young Dove may in your precepts wise Her grant to me, by her own virtue know. For late with heart most high, with eyes most low, I crav’d the thing which ever she denies: She lightning Love lightning Love That is, lightening Love , displaying Venus’ skies Venus’ skies Venus as both the planet (evening star) and the goddess of Love , Least once should not be heard, twice said, No, No. Sing Sing … sing This line is an example of epanalepsis, the poetic technique of beginning and ending the line with the same word. then my Muse, now Io P æ an Io P æ an Homer began his hymn to Apollo with these words, which serve as a Latinized version of the phrase “Sing Muse...” sing, Heav’ns envy not at my high triumphing: But Grammar’s force with sweet success confirm, For Grammar says (O this dear Stella weigh,) For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay) That in one speech two Negatives affirm.

A strife is grown between Virtue and Love, While each pretends that Stella must be his: Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this, Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove. But Virtue thus that title doth disprove, That Stella (O dear name) that Stella is That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav’nly bliss; Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move. And therefore, though her beauty and her grace Be Love’s indeed, in Stella’s self he may By no pretense claim any manner place. Well, Love, since this demur our suit doth stay, Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus, Let Virtue but that body grant to us.

It is most true, that eyes are formed to serve The inward light; and that the heavenly part Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve, Rebels to Nature, strive for their own smart. It is most true, what we call Cupid’s dart, An image is, which for ourselves we carve; And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, Till that good god make Church and churchman starve. True, that true beauty virtue is indeed, Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, Which elements with mortal mixture breed; True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move; True; and yet true, that I must Stella love.

I on my horse, and Love on me, doth try Our horsemanships, while by strange work I prove A horseman to my horse, a horse to Love, And now man’s wrongs in me, poor beast, descry. The reins wherewith my rider doth me tie Are humbled thoughts, which bit of reverence move, Curbed in with fear, but with gilt boss above Of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye. The wand is will; thou, fancy, saddle art, Girt fast by memory; and while I spur My horse, he spurs with sharp desire to my heart; He sits me fast, however I do stir; And now hath made me to his hand so right That in the manage myself takes delight.