The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney In Three Volumes |
 | I, II. |
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| 2. |
[My muse what ail's this ardour] |
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| IV. |
 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
[My muse what ail's this ardour]
My muse what ail's this ardour
To blase my onely secretts?
Alas it is no glory
To sing my owne decaid state.
Alas it is no comfort,
To speake without an answere.
Alas it is no wisdome
To shew the wound without cure,
To blase my onely secretts?
Alas it is no glory
To sing my owne decaid state.
Alas it is no comfort,
To speake without an answere.
Alas it is no wisdome
To shew the wound without cure,
My muse what ail's this ardour?
Mine eys be dym, my lyms shake,
My voice is hoarse, my throte scerchte,
My tong to this my roofe cleaves,
My fancy amazde, my thought dull'd,
My harte doth ake, my life faints,
My sowle beginnes to take leave.
So greate a passion all feele,
To think a soare so deadly
I should so rashly ripp up.
Mine eys be dym, my lyms shake,
My voice is hoarse, my throte scerchte,
My tong to this my roofe cleaves,
My fancy amazde, my thought dull'd,
My harte doth ake, my life faints,
My sowle beginnes to take leave.
So greate a passion all feele,
To think a soare so deadly
I should so rashly ripp up.
235
My muse what ail's this ardour?
If that to sing thou arte bent
Go sing the fall of old, Thebes
The warres of ougly Centaurs,
The life, the death of Hector
So may the songe be famous,
Or if to love thou art bent,
Recount the rape of Europe,
Adonis end, Venus nett
The sleepy kisse the moone stale:
So may thy song be pleasant.
If that to sing thou arte bent
Go sing the fall of old, Thebes
The warres of ougly Centaurs,
The life, the death of Hector
So may the songe be famous,
Or if to love thou art bent,
Recount the rape of Europe,
Adonis end, Venus nett
The sleepy kisse the moone stale:
So may thy song be pleasant.
My muse what ail's this ardour
To blase my onely secretts?
Wherein do only flowrish
The sorry fruites of anguish.
The song thereof a last will,
The tunes be cryes, the words plaints,
The singer is the songs theame
When no eare can have joy,
Nor ey receave due object
Ne pleasure here, ne fame gett.
To blase my onely secretts?
Wherein do only flowrish
The sorry fruites of anguish.
The song thereof a last will,
The tunes be cryes, the words plaints,
The singer is the songs theame
When no eare can have joy,
Nor ey receave due object
Ne pleasure here, ne fame gett.
My muse what ail's this ardour?
Alas she saith I am thine,
So are thy pains my pains too.
Thy heated harte my seat is
Wherein I burne thy breath is
My voice, too hott to keepe in,
Besides lo here the auther
Of all thy harmes: Lo here she,
That only can redresse thee,
Of her I will demaund helpe.
Alas she saith I am thine,
So are thy pains my pains too.
Thy heated harte my seat is
Wherein I burne thy breath is
My voice, too hott to keepe in,
Besides lo here the auther
Of all thy harmes: Lo here she,
That only can redresse thee,
Of her I will demaund helpe.
My muse I yeeld, my muse singe,
But all thy songe herein knitt,
The life we leade is all love:
The love we holde is all death,
Nor ought I crave to feede life,
Nor ought I seeke to shun death,
But onely that my goddesse
My life my death do counte hers.
But all thy songe herein knitt,
The life we leade is all love:
The love we holde is all death,
Nor ought I crave to feede life,
Nor ought I seeke to shun death,
But onely that my goddesse
My life my death do counte hers.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |