Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?

x.x.xIX 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, The indifferent judge between the high and low!

With shield of proof, shield me from out the press 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 in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

LXII Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine With rage of love, I called my Love unkind; She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find.

I joyed; but straight thus watered was my wine, That love she did, but loved a love not blind; Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline From n.o.bler cause, fit for my birth and mind: And therefore, by her love's authority, Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly, And anchor fast myself on Virtue's sh.o.r.e.

Alas, if this the only metal be Of love new-coined to help my beggary, Dear! love me not, that ye may love me more!

LXIV No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; O give my pa.s.sions leave to run their race!

Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharged with brain, against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labor 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.

LXXIII Love still a boy and oft a wanton is, Schooled only by his mother's tender eye; What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss, When for so soft a rod dear play he try?

And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie, Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat, for only this.-- Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I!

But no 'scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear In Beauty's throne; see now, who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threatening b.l.o.o.d.y pain!

O heavenly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That Anger's self I needs must kiss again.

CIII O happy Thames that didst my Stella bear!

I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face, Joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.

The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine, Ravished, stayed not, till in her golden hair They did themselves, (O sweetest prison!) twine.

And fain those Aeol's youths there would their stay Have made, but forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display.

She so dishevelled, blushed. From window, I, With sight thereof, cried out, "O fair disgrace!

Let Honor's self to thee grant highest place!"

CVII Stella! since thou so right a Princess art Of all the powers which life bestows on me, That ere by them aught undertaken be, They first resort unto that sovereign part; Sweet! for a while give respite to my heart, Which pants as though it still should leap to thee; And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy To this great cause, which needs both use and art.

And as a Queen, who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, Till it have wrought what thy own will attends: On servants' shame oft master's blame doth sit.

O, let not fools in me thy works reprove, And scorning, say, "See what it is to love!"

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]

SONNETS From "To Delia"

VI Fair is my Love, and cruel as she's fair: Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, And her disdains are gall, her favors honey.

A modest maid, decked with a blush of honor, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, Sacred on earth, designed a Saint above.

Chast.i.ty and Beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she Pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?

O had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

XII My spotless love hovers, with purest wings, About the temple of the proudest frame, Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things, Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.

My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face, Affect no honor but what she can give; My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; I weigh no comfort, unless she relieve.

For she, that can my heart imparadise, Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is.

My Fortune's Wheel's the Circle of her Eyes, Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss!

All my life's sweet consists in her alone; So much I love the most unloving one.

x.x.x And yet I cannot reprehend the flight Or blame the attempt, presuming so to soar; The mounting venture, for a high delight, Did make the honor of the fall the more.

For who gets wealth, that puts not from the sh.o.r.e?

Danger hath honor; great designs, their fame; Glory doth follow, courage goes before; And though the event oft answers not the same, Suffice that high attempts have never shame.

The Mean-observer (whom base safety keeps) Lives without honor, dies without a name, And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.

And therefore, Delia! 'tis to me no blot To have attempted, though attained thee not.

x.x.xVI When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pa.s.s, And thou, with careful brow, sitting alone, Received hast this message from thy gla.s.s, That tells the truth, and says that All is gone; Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining: I that have loved thee thus before thou fadest, My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning!

The world shall find this miracle in me, That fire can burn when all the matter's spent: Then what my faith hath been, thyself shalt see, And that thou wast unkind, thou may'st repent!

Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs.

x.x.xIX Look, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown rose The image of thy blush, and Summer's honor!

Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty Time bestows upon her.

No sooner spreads her glory in the air But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorned that late adorned the fair; So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.

No April can revive thy withered flowers Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift, speedy Time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now, whilst thou may'st be loved again.

XLV Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show: And straight 'tis gone, as it had never been.

Soon doth it fade, that makes the fairest flourish; Short is the glory of the blushing rose: The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which, at length, thou must be forced to lose.

When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth; When Time hath made a pa.s.sport for thy fears, Dated in Age, the Calends of our Death: But ah, no more! This hath been often told; And women grieve to think they must be old.

XLVI I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile!

Flowers have a time, before they come to seed; And she is young, and now must sport the while.

And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither!

And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither!

Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise!

Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise.

I hope to say, when all my griefs are gone, "Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!"

L Let others sing of Knights and Paladines In aged accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines, Which well the reach of their high wit records: But I must sing of Thee, and those fair eyes!

Authentic shall my verse in time to come, When the yet unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies!

Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!

These are the arks, the trophies I erect, That fortify thy name against old age; And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the Dark, and Time's consuming rage.

Though the error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they showed I lived, and loved thee dear.

LI Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care, return!

And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth.

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the pa.s.sions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

Samuel Daniel [1562-1619]

SONNETS From "Idea"

To The Reader Of These Sonnets

Into these Loves, who but for Pa.s.sion looks, At this first sight, here let him lay them by, And seek elsewhere in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy.