Sir Philip Sidney[/55^-/5s6]
¶5^ SongDoubt 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 endeth.
¶Who hath the eyes which marry State with Pleasure?Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only for you, the heaven forgat all measure.
¶Who hath the lips, where Wit in fairness reigneth ?Who mankind at once both decks and staineth?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only by you, Cupid his crown maintaineth.
¶Who hath the feet, whose step all sweetness planteth?Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only to you, her sceptre Venus granteth.
¶Who hath the breast, whose milk doth passions nourish?Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only through you, the tree of life doth flourish.
¶Who hath the hand, which without stroke subdueth?Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only at you, all envy hopeless rueth.
¶Who hath the hair, which loosest fastest tieth?Who makes a man live, then glad when he dieth?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only of you, the flatterer never lieth.[211]Who hath the voice, which soul from senses sunders?Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?To you! to you! all song of praise is due:Only with you, not miracles are wonders.
¶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 endeth.
¶55. A Dirge
¶Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread;For Love is dead.All Love is dead, infectedWith plague of deep disdain;Worth, as nought worth, rejected,And Faith, fair scorn doth gain.From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus.Good Lord, deliver us!
¶Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it saidThat Love is dead?His death-bed, peacock's folly;His winding-sheet is shame;His will, false-seeming holy;His sole exec'tor, blame.From so ungrateful fancy.From such a female franzy.From them that use men thus.Good Lord, deliver us!
¶Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read.For Love is dead.Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth,My mistress' marble heart;Which epitaph containeth,"Her eyes were once his dart."[212]From so ungrateful fancy,From such a female franzy,From them that use men thus,Good Lord , deliver us!
¶Alas, I lie: rage hath this error bred;Love is not dead.Love is not dead, but sleepethIn her unmatched mind,Where she his counsel keepeth,Till due deserts she find.Therefore from so vile fancy,To call such wit a franzy,Who Love can temper thus,Good Lord , deliver us!
A Ditty
¶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 true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
¶His heart in me keeps him and me in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:He loves my heart, for once it was his own,I cherish his because in me it bides:My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
Loving in Truth
¶LOVING in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,That She, dear She, might take some pleasure of my pain;Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know ,Knowledge might pity w in , and pity grace obtain;I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain;Of t turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flowSome fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay;[213]Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way .Thus , great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite."Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and wiite
Be Your Words Made, Good Sir, of Indian Ware
¶BE your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware,That you allow me them by so small rate?Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?Or do you mean my tender ears to spareThat to my questions you so total are?When I demand of Phoenix-Stella's state,You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:0 God , think you that satisfies my care?
¶I would know whether she did sit or walk;How clothed; how waited on; sighed she, or smiled;Whereof, with whom , how often did she talk;With what pastime Time ' s journey she beguiled;If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name:Say all; and, all well said, still say the same.
To SLEEP
¶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,T h ' indifferent judge between the high and low;With shield of proof, shield me from out the preaseOf those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:0 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.
To THE MOON
¶WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how w an a face!What ! may it be that even in heavenly placeThat busy archer his sharp arrows tries?Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd graceTo me, that feel the like, thy state descries.Then , even 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 loved, and yetThose lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?Do they call 'virtue' there—ungratefulness?