92.

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

Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are?
When I demand of Phoenix-Stella's state,
You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:
O 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 pastimes Time's journey she beguiled;
If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name :
Say all; and all well said, still say the same.

92.

O fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss!
What sobs can give words grace my grief to show?
What ink is black enough to paint my woe?
Through me-wretch me-even Stella vexèd is.
Yet, truth-if caitif's breath may call thee-this
Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so,
From carelessness did in no manner grow;
But wit, confused with too much care, did miss.
And do I, then, myself this vain 'scuse give?
I have-live I, and know this-harmèd thee:
Though worlds 'quit me, shall I myself forgive?
Only with pains my pains thus easèd be,
That all thy hurts in my heart's wrack I read;
I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed.

107.

Stella, since thou so right a princess art
Of all the powers which life bestows on me,
That ere by them ought 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 masters' blame doth sit:
O let not fools in me thy works reprove,
And scorning say, 'See what it is to love!'

SONGS FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA.

Seventh Song. Stella singing.

Whose senses in so ill consort their step-dame Nature lays, That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes do not raise ; Or if they do delight therein, yet are so closed with wit,

As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it;

O let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in Wonder's schools,

To be, in things past bounds of wit, fools-if they be not fools!

Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweet Beauty's show,
Or, seeing, have so wooden wits, as not that worth to know,
Or, knowing, have so muddy minds, as not to be in love,
Or, loving, have so frothy thoughts, as eas'ly thence to move;
O let them see these heavenly beams, and in fair letters read
A lesson fit, both sight and skill, love and firm love to breed.

Hear then, but then with wonder hear, see, but adoring, see, No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits, now here descended be: See, do you see this face? a face, nay, image of the skies, Of which, the two life-giving lights are figured in her eyes : Hear you this soul-invading voice, and count it but a voice? The very essence of their tunes, when angels do rejoice!

Tenth Song. Absence.

O dear life, when shall it be

That mine eyes thine eyes shall see,
And in them thy mind discover

Whether absence have had force

Thy remembrance to divorce

From the image of thy lover?

Or if I myself find not,

After parting, aught forgot,

Nor debarred from Beauty's treasure,

Let not tongue aspire to tell

In what high joys I shall dwell;
Only thought aims at the pleasure.

Thought, therefore, I will send thee
To take up the place for me:
Long I will not after tarry,
There, unseen, thou mayst be bold,
Those fair wonders to behold,

Which in them my hopes do carry.

Thought, see thou no place forbear,
Enter bravely everywhere,
Seize on all to her belonging;
But if thou wouldst guarded be,
Fearing her beams, take with thee
Strength of liking, rage of longing.

Think of that most grateful time
When my leaping heart will climb,

In my lips to have his biding,
There those roses for to kiss,
Which do breathe a sugared bliss,
Opening rubies, pearls dividing.

*

Think, think of those dallyings,
When with dove-like murmurings,
With glad moaning, passèd anguish,
We change eyes, and heart for heart,
Each to other do depart1,

Joying till joy makes us languish.

O my thought, my thoughts surcease,
Thy delights my woes increase,

My life melts with too much thinking;
Think no more, but die in me,

Till thou shalt revived be,

At her lips my nectar drinking.

[From the collection of Miscellaneous Poems first published in the Arcadia of 1595, under the heading of Certain Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney never before printed.]

PHILOMELA.

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,

While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making,
And mournfully bewailing,

Her throat in tunes expresseth

What grief her breast oppresseth

For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
1 share, exchange (Spanish departir).

A DIRGE.

Ring out your bells, let mourning shews 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.

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female frenzy,

From them that use men thus,

Good Lord, deliver us!

Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead?

His death-bed, peacock's folly ;

His winding-sheet is shame;

His will, false-seeming wholly ;

His sole executor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female frenzy,

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.'

From so ungrateful fancy,

From such a female frenzy,

From them that use men thus,

Good Lord, deliver us!

Alas, I lie rage hath this error bred;

Love is not dead;