Sir Philip Sidney

MY true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My

When Sorrow, using mine own fire’s might, Melts down his lead into my boiling breast, Through that dark furnace to my heart oppressed, There shines a joy from thee, my only light: But soon

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

Thou blind man’s mark, thou fool’s self chosen snare, Fond fancy’s scum, and dregs of scatter’d thought, Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care, Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought.

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, Frame daintiest lustre, mix’d of shades and light? Or

Strephon. You Gote-heard Gods, that loue the grassie mountaines, You Nimphes that haunt the springs in pleasant vallies, You Satyrs ioyde with free and quiet forests, Vouchsafe your silent eares to playning musique, Which

You that with allegory’s curious frame, Of others’ children changelings use to make, With me those pains for God’s sake do not take: I list not dig so deep for brazen fame. When I

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, I thought that I was full of thee: But

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,

Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound, fly! See there that boy, that murd’ring boy, I say, Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie Till bloody bullet get him

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

Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow: And damning their own selves to Tantal’s smart, Wealth breeding want, more blist more wretched grow. Yet

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;

Like some weak lords, neighbor’d by mighty kings, To keep themselves and their chief cities free, Do easily yield, that all their coasts may be Ready to store their camps of needful things: So

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 heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

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

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

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth, Which now my breast o’ercharged to music lendeth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due; Only in you my song begins and

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 heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

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

Because I breathe not love to every one, Nor do not use set colours for to wear, Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,

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;

The curious wits seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long settled eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, With idle pains, and missing aim, do guess. Some that know how my spring

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread; For Love is dead All love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain; Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain.

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

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!

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.

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

It is most true, that eyes are form’d to serve The inward light; and that the heavenly part Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve, Rebles to Nature, strive for their

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; Ye that do dictionary’s

Cupid, because thou shin’st in Stella’s eyes, That from her locks, thy day-nets, noe scapes free, That those lips swell, so full of thee they be, That her sweet breath makes oft thy flames

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise By Phoebus’ doom, with sugar’d sentence says, That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes, Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise;