Sir Philip Sidney: Всі вірші поета

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Sonnet 33: I Might

I might!—unhappy word—O me, I might,

And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;

Till now wrapt in a most infernal night,

I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss.

Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right;

No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,

No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight,

Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is;

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 27: Because I Oft

Because I oft in dark abstracted guise

Seem most alone in greatest company,

With dearth of words, or answers quite awry,

To them that would make speech of speech arise,

They deem, and of their doom the rumor flies,

That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie

So in my swelling breast that only I

Fawn on myself, and others do despise:

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 17: His Mother Dear Cupid

His mother dear Cupid offended late,

Because that Mars grown slacker in her love,

With pricking shot he did not throughly more

To keep the pace of their first loving state.

The boy refus'd for fear of Mars's hate,

Who threaten'd stripes, if he his wrath did prove:

But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,

Brake bow, brake shafts, while Cupid weeping sate:

by Sir Philip Sidney

Astrophel And Stella-Eleventh Song

"Who is it that this dark night

Underneath my window plaineth?"

'It is one who from thy sight

Being, ah! exiled, disdaineth

Every other vulgar light.'

"Why, alas! and are you he?

Be not yet those fancies changed?"

'Dear, when you find change in me,

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 25: The Wisest Scholar

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise

By Phoebus' doom, with sugar'd sentence says,

That Virtue, if it once met with our eyes,

Strange flames of love it in our souls would raise;

But for that man with pain his truth descries,

Whiles he each thing in sense's balance weighs,

And so nor will, nor can behold those skies

Which inward sun to heroic mind displays,

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 8: Love, Born In Greece

Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place,

Forc'd by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart

Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart,

And pleas'd with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race.

But finding these north climes do coldly him embrace,

Not used to frozen clips, he strave to find some part

Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art:

At length he perch'd himself in Stella's joyful face,

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 15: You That Do Search

You that do search for every purling spring,

Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,

And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows

Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;

You that do dictionary's method bring

Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;

You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes,

With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing,

by Sir Philip Sidney

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.

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 10: Reason

Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still

Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me:

I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill,

Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,

Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside to see:

Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil to till?

Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be:

Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will.

by Sir Philip Sidney

Leave me, O Love, which Reachest but to Dust

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;

Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.

Draw in thy beams and humble all thy might

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;

Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,

That both doth shine and give us sight to see.

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 21: Your Words, My Friend

Your words, my friend, (right healthful caustics) blame

My young mind marr'd, whom Love doth windlass so,

That mine own writings like bad servants show

My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;

That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame

Such doltish gyres; that to my birth I owe

Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,

Great Expectation, were a train of shame.

by Sir Philip Sidney

Sonnet 16: In Nature Apt

In nature apt to like when I did see

Beauties, which were of many carats fine,

My boiling sprites did thither soon incline,

And, Love, I thought that I was full of thee:

But finding not those restless flames in me,

Which others said did make their souls to pine,

I thought those babes of some pin's hurt did whine,

By my love judging what love's pain might be.

by Sir Philip Sidney