Philip Sidney (Sir)

Uttered in a Pastoral Show at Wilton. WILL.    Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice Show that we do not grudge at all when others do rejoice.

Oft have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die, men say, they do depart: Depart:    a word so gentle to my mind,

Philoclea and Pamela sweet, By chance, in one great house did meet; And meeting, did so join in heart,

Prometheus, when first from heaven high He brought down fire, till then on earth not seen; Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by,

Some louers speake, when they their Muses entertaine, Of hopes begot by feare, of wot not what desires, Of force of heau'nly beames infusing hellish paine,

Sonnet I Louing in trueth, and fayne in verse my loue to show, That she, deare Shee, might take som pleasure of my paine,

In a groue most rich of shade, Where birds wanton musicke made, Maie, then yong, his pide weedes showing,

Who is it that this darke night Vnderneath my window playneth? It is one who from thy sight

While fauour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought, Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought; Then grew my tongue and pen records vnto thy glory,

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes entendeth, Which now my breast, surcharg'd, to musick lendeth! To you, to you, all song of praise is due,

Onely Ioy, now here you are, Fit to heare and ease my care, Let my whispering voyce obtaine

Go, my Flocke, go, get you hence, Seeke a better place of feeding, Where you may haue some defence

Haue I caught my heau'nly iewell, Teaching Sleepe most faire to be! Now will I teach her that she,

Whose senses in so euill consort their stepdame Nature laies, That rauishing delight in them most sweete tunes do not raise; Or if they do delight therein, yet are so closde with wit,

O you that heare this voice, O you that see this face, Say whether of the choice

O teares! no teares, but raine, from Beauties skies, Making those lillies and those roses growe, Which ay most faire, now more then most faire shew,

Stella is sicke, and in that sicke-bed lies Sweetnesse, which breathes and pants as oft as she: And Grace, sicke too, such fine conclusion tries,

Where be those roses gone, which sweetned so our eyes? Where those red cheeks, which oft, with faire encrease, did frame The height of honour in the kindly badge of shame?

O happie Thames, that didst my Stella beare! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Vpon thy cheerefull face, Ioyes liuery weare,

Enuious wits, what hath bene mine offence, That with such poysonous care my lookes you marke, That to each word, nay sigh of mine, you harke,

Thou blind mans marke, thou fooles selfe-chosen snare, Fond fancies scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought: Band of all euils, cradle of causelesse care;

Vnhappie sight, and hath shee vanisht by So nere, in so good time, so free a place! Dead Glasse, dost thou thy obiect so imbrace,

O absent presence! Stella is not here; False-flatt'ring hope, that with so faire a face Bare me in hand, that in this orphane place,

Stella, since thou so right a princesse art Of all the Powers which Life bestowes on me, That ere by them ought vndertaken be,

When Sorrow (vsing mine owne fiers might) Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest Through that darke furnace to my hart opprest,

Leaue, me, O loue which reachest but to dust, And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things. Grow rich in that which neuer taketh rust;

Louing in trueth, and fayne in verse my loue to show, That she, deare Shee, might take som pleasure of my paine, Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know,

Not at the first sight, nor with a dribbed shot, Loue gaue the wound, which, while I breathe, will bleede; But knowne worth did in tract of time proceed,

Let dainty wits crie on the Sisters nine, That, brauely maskt, their fancies may be told; Or, Pindars apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,

Vertue, alas, now let me take some rest; Thou setst a bate betweene my will and wit; If vaine Loue haue my simple soule opprest,

Queen Virtues Court, which some call Stellaes face, Prepar'd by Natures choicest furniture, Hath his front built of alabaster pure;

Stella, the fullnesse of my thoughts of thee Cannot be staid within my panting breast, But they do swell and struggle forth of me,

Pardon mine ears, both I and they do pray, So may your tongue still flauntingly proceed To them that do such entertainment need,

A strife is growne between Vertue and Loue, While each pretends that Stella must be his: Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Loue, do this,

In martiall sports I had my cunning tride, And yet to breake more staues did mee addresse, While, with the peoples shouts, I must confesse,

Because I breathe not loue to euery one, Nor doe not vse sette colours for to weare, Nor nourish speciall locks of vowed haire,

Deere, why make you more of a dog then me? If he doe loue, I burne, I burne in loue; If he waite well, I neuer thence would moue;

Muses, I oft inuoked your holy ayde, With choisest flowers my speech t' engarland so, That it, despisde, in true but naked shew

Fy, schoole of Patience, fy! your Lesson is Far, far too long to learne it without booke: What, a whole weeke without one peece of looke,

Who hauing made, with many fights, his owne Each sence of mine, each gift, each pow'r of mind; Growne now his slaues, he forst them out to find

Doubt there hath beene when with his golden chaine The orator so farre mens hearts doth bind, That no pace else their guided steps can find

When my good Angell guides me to the place Where all my good I doe in Stella see, That heau'n of ioyes throwes onely downe on me

Oft with true sighs, oft with vncalled teares, Now with slow words, now with dumbe eloquence, I Stellas eyes assaid, inuade her eares;

Late tyr'd with wo, euen ready for to pine With rage of loue, I cald my Loue vnkind; She in whose eyes loue, though vnfelt, doth shine,

O grammer-rules, O now your vertues show; So children still reade you with awfull eyes, As my young doue may, in your precepts wise,

No more, my deare, no more these counsels trie; O giue my passions leaue to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;

O ioy to high for my low stile to show! O blisse fit for a nobler seat then me! Enuie, put out thine eyes, least thou do see

Loue, by sure proofe I may call thee vnkind, That giu'st no better ear to my iust cries; Thou whom to me such good turnes should bind,

And do I see some cause a hope to feede, Or doth the tedious burden of long wo In weaken'd minds quick apprehending breed

Hope, art thou true, or doest thou flatter me? Doth Stella now beginne with piteous eye The ruines of her conquest to espie?

Stella, the onely planet of my light, Light of my life, and life of my desire, Chiefe good whereto my hope doth only aspire,

My Muse may well grudge at my heau'nly ioy, Yf still I force her in sad rimes to creepe: She oft hath drunk my teares, now hopes to enioy

Who will in fairest booke of Nature know How vertue may best lodg'd in Beautie be, Let him but learne of Loue to reade in thee,

Desire, though thou my old companion art, And oft so clings to my pure loue that I One from the other scarcely can discrie,

Loue, still a Boy, and oft a wanton is, School'd onely by his mothers tender eye; What wonder then if he his lesson misse,

I neuer dranke of Aganippe well, Nor euer did in shade of Tempe sit, And Muses scorne with vulgar brains to dwell;

Sweet kisse, thy sweets I faine would sweetly endite, Which, euen of sweetnesse sweetest sweetner art; Pleasingst consort, where each sence holds a part;

Of all the Kings that euer here did raigne, Edward, nam'd fourth, as first in praise I name: Not for his faire outside, nor well-lin'd braine,

She comes, and streight therewith her shining twins do moue Their rayes to me, who in their tedious absence lay Benighted in cold wo; but now appears my day,

Those lookes, whose beames be ioy, whose motion is delight; That face, whose lecture shews what perfect beauty is; That presence, which doth giue darke hearts a liuing light;

O how the pleasant ayres of true loue be Infected by those vapours which arise From out that noysome gulfe, which gaping lies

Sweet-swelling lip, well maist thou swell in pride, Since best wits thinke it wit thee to admire; Natures praise, Vertues stall; Cupids cold fire,

O kisse, which dost those ruddie gemmes impart, Or gemmes or fruits of new-found Paradise, Breathing all blisse, and sweetning to the heart,

Nymph of the garden where all beauties be, Beauties which do in excellencie passe His who till death lookt in a watrie glasse,

Good brother Philip, I haue borne you long; I was content you should in fauour creepe, While craftely you seem'd your cut to keepe,

High way, since you my chiefe Pernassus be, And that my Muse, to some eares not vnsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses feete

Now that of absence the most irksom night With darkest shade doth ouercome my day; Since Stellaes eyes, wont to giue me my day,

I see the house, (my heart thy selfe containe!) Beware full sailes drowne not thy tottring barge, Least ioy, by nature apt sprites to enlarge,

Alas, whence came this change of lookes? If I Haue chang'd desert, let mine owne conscience be A still-felt plague to selfe-condemning mee;

When I was forst from Stella euer deere, Stella, food of my thoughts, hart of my hart; Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests cleere,

Out, traytor Absence, dar'st thou counsell me From my deare captainesse to run away, Because in braue array heere marcheth she,

It is most true that eyes are form'd to serue The inward light, and that the heauenly part Ought to be King, from whose rules who do swerue,

When Nature made her chief worke, Stellas eyes, In colour blacke why wrapt she beames so bright? Would she in beamy blacke, like Painter wise,

Loue, borne in Greece, of late fled from his natiue place, Forc't, by a tedious proof, that Turkish hardned heart Is not fit mark to pierce with his fine-pointed dart,

Reason, in faith thou art well seru'd that still Wouldst brabbling be with Sense and Loue in me; I rather wisht thee clime the Muses hill;

Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame, Who seeke, who hope, who loue, who liue but thee; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history:

Stella, while now, by Honours cruell might, I am from you, light of my life, misled, And whiles, faire you, my sunne, thus ouerspred

Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, That you allow me them by so small rate? Or do you curtted Spartanes imitate?

O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my blisse! What sobs can giue words grace my griefe to show? What inke is blacke inough to paint my woe?

Griefe, find the words; for thou hast made my braine So darke with misty vapuors, which arise From out thy heauy mould, that inbent eyes

When far-spent Night perswades each mortall eye, To whome nor Art nor Nature graunteth light, To lay his then marke-wanting shafts of sight,

Yet sighes, deare sighs, indeede true friends you are, That do not leaue your best friend at the wurst, But, as you with my breast I oft haue nurst,

Thought, with good cause thou lik'st so well the night, Since kind or chance giues both one liuerie, Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be;

Dian, that faine would cheare her friend the Night, Shewes her oft, at the full, her fairest face, Bringing with her those starry Nymphs, whose chace

Ah, bed! the field where Ioyes peace some do see, The field where all my thoughts to warre be train'd, How is thy grace by my strange fortune strain'd!

In truth, O Loue, with what a boyish kind Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways, That when the heau'n to thee his best displayes,

Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stellaes eyes That from her locks thy day-nets none scapes free That those lips sweld so full of thee they be

Phoebus was iudge betweene Ioue, Mars, and Loue, Of those three gods, whose armes the fairest were. Ioues golden shield did sable eagles beare,

Alas, haue I not pain enough, my friend, Vpon whose breast a fiecer Gripe doth tire Than did on him who first stale down the fire,

On Cupids bowe how are my heart-strings bent, That see my wracke, and yet embrace the same! When most I glory, then I feele most shame;

As good to write, as for to lie and grone. O Stella deare, how much thy powre hath wrought, That hast my mind (now of the basest) brought

Hauing this day my horse, my hand, my launce Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the iudgement of the English eyes

O eyes, which do the spheres of beauty moue; Whose beames be ioyes, whose ioyes all vertues be, Who, while they make Loue conquer, conquer Loue;

Faire eyes, sweet lips, dear heart, that foolish I Could hope, by Cupids help, on you to pray, Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,

My words I know do well set forth my minde; My mind bemones his sense of inward smart; Such smart may pitie claim of any hart;

I on my horse, and Loue on me, doth trie Our horsemanships, while by strange worke I proue A horsman to my horse, a horse to Loue,

Stella oft sees the very face of wo Painted in my beclowded stormie face, But cannot skill to pitie my disgrace,

I curst thee oft, I pitie now thy case, Blind-hitting Boy, since she that thee and me Rules with a becke, so tyranniseth thee,

What, haue I thus betray'd my libertie? Can those blacke beames such burning markes engraue In my free side, or am I borne a slaue,

Soules ioy, bend not those morning starres from me Where Vertue is made strong by Beauties might; Where Loue is chasteness, Paine doth learn delight,

You that do search for euery purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flowes, And euery flower, not sweet perhaps, which growes

In nature, apt to like, when I did see Beauties which were of many carrets fine, My boiling sprites did thither then incline,

His mother deere, Cupid offended late, Because that Mars, growne slacker in her loue, With pricking shot he did not throughly moue

With what sharp checkes I in myself am shent When into Reasons audite I do goe, And by iust counts my selfe a bankrout know

Fly, fly, my friends; I haue my deaths wound, fly; See there that Boy, that murthring Boy I say, Who like a theefe hid in dark bush doth ly,

Your words, my friend, (right healthfull caustiks), blame My young mind marde, whom Loue doth windlas so; That mine owne writings, like bad seruants, show

In highest way of heau'n the Sun did ride, Progressing then from fair Twinnes golden place, Hauing no mask of clouds before his face,

The curious wits, seeing dull pensiuenesse Bewray it self in my long-settl'd eies Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,

Rich fooles there be whose base and filthy heart Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow, And damning their own selues to Tantals smart,

Like some weak lords neighbord by mighty kings, To keep themselues and their chief cities free, Do easily yeeld that all their coasts may be

The wisest scholler of the wight most wise By Phoebus doom, with sugred sentence sayes, That vertue, if it once met with our eyes,

Though dustie wits dare scorne Astrologie, And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light Whose numbers, waies, greatnesse, eternity,

Because I oft in darke abstracted guise Seeme most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awrie,

You that with Allegories curious frame Of others children changelings vse to make, With me those pains, for Gods sake, do not take:

Whether the Turkish new moone minded be To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast; How Poles right king means without leaue of host

With how sad steps, O Moone, thou climbst the skies! How silently, and with how wanne a face! What, may it be that euen in heau'nly place

Morpheus, the liuely sonne of deadly Sleepe, Witnesse of life to them that liuing die, A prophet oft, and oft an historie,

I might (vnhappy word!) O me, I might, And then I would not, or could not, see my blisse, Till now wrapt in a most infernall night,

Come, let me write. And to what end? To ease A burthen'd heart. How can words ease, which are The glasses of thy dayly-vexing care?

Come, Sleepe! O Sleepe, the certaine knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balme of woe, The poor mans wealth, the prisoners release,

What may words say, or what may words not say, Where Truth itself must speake like Flatterie? Within what bounds can one his liking stay,

Stella, whence doth these new assaults arise, A conquerd yeelding ransackt heart to winne, Whereto long since, through my long-battred eyes,

My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell, My tongue doth itch, my thoughts in labour be: Listen then, lordings, with good ear to me,

This night, while sleepe begins with heauy wings To hatch mine eyes, and that vnbitted thought Doth fall to stray, and my chief powres are brought

O deare Life, when shall it bee That mine eyes thine eyes shall see, And in them thy mind discouer

If Orpheus voyce had force to breathe such musickes loue Through pores of senceles trees, as it could make them moue; If stones good measure daunc'd, the Theban walles to build

Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread, For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected

Walking in bright Phoebus' blaze, Where with heat oppressed I was, I got to a shady wood,

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;

My mistress lowers, and saith I do not love: I do protest, and seek with service due, In humble mind, a constant faith to prove;

When, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remained

A satyr once did run away for dread, With sound of horn which he himself did blow: Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled,

To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel. All my sense thy sweetness gained; Thy fair hair my heart enchained;

To the tune of "Basciami vita mia." Sleep, baby mine, Desire's nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching:

Since shunning pain, I ease can never find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stopped ears are charmed;

The dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love,

Ah, poor Love, why dost thou live, Thus to see thy service lost; If she will no comfort give,

I. Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found, But so confused, that neither any eye

I. Who hath e'er felt the change of love, And known those pangs that losers prove,

From "La Diana de Monte-Mayor," in Spanish:    where Sireno, a shepherd, whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him, pulling out a little of her hair, wrapped about with green silk, to the hair he thus bewailed himself. What changes here, O hair, I see, since I saw you!

You better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while sea's rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.

Made by Sir Philip Sidney, upon his meeting with his two worthy friends and fellow poets, Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke Greville. Join mates in mirth to me, Grant pleasure to our meeting;

To the tune of a Neapolitan song, which beginneth, "No, no, no, no." No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire,

To the tune of the Spanish song, "Si tu senora no ducles de mi." O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree,

Faint amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Love's honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour