Sir Philip Sidney

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:

Till that his grandame Nature pityijng it Of stella's brows make him two better bows, And in her eyes of arrows infinite.

Oh how for joy he leaps, oh how he crows, And straight therewith like wags new got to play, Falls to shrewd turns, and I was in his way.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

Whether the Turkish new moon minded be To fill his horns this year on Christian coast; How Poles' right king means, with leave of host, To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy;

If French can yet three parts in one agree; What now the Dutch in their full diets boast; How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree;

How Ulster likes of that same golden bit Wherewith my father once made it half tame; If in the Scotch court be no welt'ring yet:

These questions busy wits to me do frame. I, cumber'd with good manners, answer do, But know not how, for still I think of you.

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, Th' 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 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.

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, 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 whoom that love doth possess? Do they call 'virtue' there - ungratefulness?

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 better bargain driven. His heart in me keeps me and him 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. His heart his wound received from my sight, My heart was wounded with his wounded heart; For as from me on him his hurt did light, So still methought in me his hurt did smart. Both equal hurt, in his change sought our bliss; My true love hath my heart and I have his.