Sir Philip Sidney

Soul’s joy, bend not those morning stars from me, Where virtue is made strong by beauty’s might, Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight, And humbleness grows one with majesty. Whatever may ensue, O let me be Co-partner of the riches of that sight; Let not mine eyes be hell-driv’n from that light; O look, O shine, O let me die and see. For though I oft my self of them bemoan, That through my heart their beamy darts be gone, Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed, Yet since my death wound is already got, Dear killer, spare not they sweet cruel shot; A kind of grace it is to slay with speed.

What, have I thus betrayed my liberty? Can those black beams such burning marks engrave In my free side? or am I born a slave, Whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny? Or want I sense to feel my misery? Or sprite, disdain of such disdain to have? Who for long faith, though daily help I crave, May get no alms but scorn of beggary. Virtue, awake! Beauty but beauty is; I may, I must, I can, I will, I do Leave following that which it is gain to miss. Let her go. Soft, but here she comes. Go to, Unkind, I love you not! O me, that eye Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie!

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 daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low. With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw: O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

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, I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss. Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right; No lovely Paris made thy Helen his, No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight, Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is; But to myself myself did give the blow, While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me That I respects for both our sakes must show: And yet could not by rising morn foresee How fair a day was near: O punish'd eyes, That I had been more foolish,—or more wise!

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heav'nly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine, That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told; Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine, Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold. Or else let them in statelier glory shine, Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old; Or with strange similes enrich each line, Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold. For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know; Phrases and problems from my reach do grow, And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites. How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read What love and beauty be; then all my deed But copying is, what in her Nature writes.

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise By Phoebus’ doom, with sugared sentence says That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes, Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise; But, for that man with pain this truth descries, While he each thing in sense’s balance weighs, And so nor will nor can behold those skies Which inward sun to heroic mind displays, Virtue of late, with virtuous care to stir Love of herself, takes Stella’s shape, that she To mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her. It is most true, for since I her did see, Virtue’s great beauty in that face I prove, And find th’effect, for I do burn in love.

The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, With idle pains and missing aim do guess. Some, that know how my spring I did address, Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies; Others, because the prince my service tries, Think that I think state errors to redress; But harder judges judge ambition's ragei Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry placei Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage. O fool or over-wise! alas, the race Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.

Your words my friend (right healthful caustics) blame My young mind marred, 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 coltish gyres, that to my birth I owe Nobler desires, least else that friendly foe, Great expectation, wear 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 ought so fair as Stella is?