Silence fully grants thy suit.
Doth she pout, and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.
Is she sick? Why then be sure
She invites thee to the curé.
Doth she cross thy suit with No?
Tush, she loves to hear thee woo.
Doth she call the faith of man
In question? Nay, she loves thee than;
And if ere she makes a blot,
She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.
He that after ten denials
Dares attempt no further trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire
The dainties of his chaste desire.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, quoted in Puttenham's The Art of English Poesy, 1589; written about 1580.
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a bargain better 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.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, ed. 1598; written about 1580.
SONNET: TO SLEEP.
LOCK up, fair lids, the treasure of my heart,
Preserve those beams, this age's only light;
To her sweet sense, sweet Sleep, some ease impart —
Her sense too weak to bear her spirit's might.
And while, O Sleep, thou closest up her sight!
Her sight, where Love did forge his fairest dart,
O harbor all her parts in easeful plight;
Let no strange dream make her fair body start.
But yet, O dream, if thou wilt not depart
In this rare subject from thy common right,
But wilt thyself in such a seat delight:
Then take my shape and play a lover's part,
Kiss her from me, and say unto her sprite,
Till her eyes shine I live in darkest night.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, Astrophel and Stella, 1591; written before 1582.
DOUBT you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast surcharged 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,
you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth !
Who womankind 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 patience 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.
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.
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!
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 languished grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then ev'n 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?
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 prease
Of these 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 of noise and blind of 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.
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody;
Now blessed you bear onward blessèd me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honored by public heed,
By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot,
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,—
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.
STELLA, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history:
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I as to frame
A nest for my young praise in laurel tree :
In truth, I swear, I wish not there should be
Graved in my epitaph a poet's name.
Ne, if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud thereof to me should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take:
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth endite,
And Love doth hold my hand and makes me write.
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