 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
POEMS FROM THE OLD ARCADIA
[Feede one my sheepe my chardge my comforte feede]
Feede one my sheepe my chardge my comforte feede
With sonnes approche your pasture fertill growes
O onely sonne yt suche fruite can brede.
Feede on my sheepe your faire swete fedinge flowes
Eache hower eache herbe dothe to your service yelde
O blessed sonne whence all this blessinges goe
Feed one my sheepe possess your fruitfull feilde
Noe wolves dare howle nor Morriane can prevayle
And from the stormes, our sweteste sonne will sheilde.
With sonnes approche your pasture fertill growes
O onely sonne yt suche fruite can brede.
Feede on my sheepe your faire swete fedinge flowes
Eache hower eache herbe dothe to your service yelde
O blessed sonne whence all this blessinges goe
Feed one my sheepe possess your fruitfull feilde
Noe wolves dare howle nor Morriane can prevayle
And from the stormes, our sweteste sonne will sheilde.
Feede one my sheepe, sorowe hathe stricken sayle
Enjoye my Joyes, as you did taste my payne
While our sonne shinnes, noe clowdie greifes assayle,
Fede on my sheepe your nature Joyes mayntayne
Your wolle is ritche, noe tounge can tell my gayne.
Enjoye my Joyes, as you did taste my payne
While our sonne shinnes, noe clowdie greifes assayle,
Fede on my sheepe your nature Joyes mayntayne
Your wolle is ritche, noe tounge can tell my gayne.
Leave offe my sheepe yt is noe tyme to feede
My Sonne is gonne your pasture barren growes
O cruell sonne thy hate this harme doth breade
Leave off my sheepe my shewer of teares ore flowe
Your sweteste flowers your hearbes noe service yeldes
My Sonne alas from me for ever goes
Leave of my sheepe my Sighes bourne up my feildes
My plaintes call wolves, my plagues in you prevayle
My sonne is gonne, from stormes what shall us sheilde
My Sonne is gonne your pasture barren growes
O cruell sonne thy hate this harme doth breade
239
Your sweteste flowers your hearbes noe service yeldes
My Sonne alas from me for ever goes
Leave of my sheepe my Sighes bourne up my feildes
My plaintes call wolves, my plagues in you prevayle
My sonne is gonne, from stormes what shall us sheilde
Leave off my sheepe sorrowe hathe hoysed sayle
Wayle in my woes, taste of your Maysters payne
My sonne is gone nowe clowdye greifes assayle.
Leave leavinge not my mourninge to mayntayne
You beare noe woll, and loste is ay my payne.
Wayle in my woes, taste of your Maysters payne
My sonne is gone nowe clowdye greifes assayle.
Leave leavinge not my mourninge to mayntayne
You beare noe woll, and loste is ay my payne.
[Swete glove the swetenes of my secrett blisse]
Swete glove the swetenes of my secrett blisse
Whiche hidinge dideste preserve that lighte,
That (opened forthe my seale of comforte is)
Be thou my starr in this my darkest nighte,
Nowe that myne eyes this cherefull sonne dothe misse,
Which dazelinge still, doest still maynetayne.
Be thou swete glove the Ancor of my mynde
Till my frayle barke his harbour agayne doe fynde
Whiche hidinge dideste preserve that lighte,
That (opened forthe my seale of comforte is)
Be thou my starr in this my darkest nighte,
Nowe that myne eyes this cherefull sonne dothe misse,
Which dazelinge still, doest still maynetayne.
Be thou swete glove the Ancor of my mynde
Till my frayle barke his harbour agayne doe fynde
Swete glove the swete despoyles of sweteste hande,
Fayer hande the fayreste pledge of fayrer harte
Trew harte whose trewthe dothe yelde the treweste bande
Cheif band I saye which tyes my cheifeste parte
My cheifeste parte wherein I cheifely stande
Those secrett Joyes which heaven to me Imparte
Unytye in one my state thus still to save
You have my thankes lett me your comforte have.
Fayer hande the fayreste pledge of fayrer harte
Trew harte whose trewthe dothe yelde the treweste bande
Cheif band I saye which tyes my cheifeste parte
My cheifeste parte wherein I cheifely stande
Those secrett Joyes which heaven to me Imparte
Unytye in one my state thus still to save
You have my thankes lett me your comforte have.
[The merchant man whome gayne dothe teache the sea]
The merchant man whome gayne dothe teache the sea
Wheare Rockes doe weighte for men the wyndes doe chase
Beaten with waves noe soner kenns the baye
Wheare he was bounde to make the baye
But feare forgott and paynes all overpaste
May present ease receave the bitter taste
Wheare Rockes doe weighte for men the wyndes doe chase
Beaten with waves noe soner kenns the baye
Wheare he was bounde to make the baye
But feare forgott and paynes all overpaste
May present ease receave the bitter taste
240
The laborer which cursed earthe uppteares
With sweatye browes sometyme with watrye eyes
Ofte Scortchinge sonne ofte clowdye darkenes feares
While uppon chaunce his fruite of labour lyes
But harveste come and corne in fertill stoare
More in his owne he toyled he glades the moare
With sweatye browes sometyme with watrye eyes
Ofte Scortchinge sonne ofte clowdye darkenes feares
While uppon chaunce his fruite of labour lyes
But harveste come and corne in fertill stoare
More in his owne he toyled he glades the moare
Thus in my pilgrimage of mated mynde
Seekinge the saynt in whome all graces dwell
What stormes founde me what tormentes I did fynde
Who seekes to knowe aquayntes hime self with hell
But nowe successe hathe gott above annoyes
That sorrowes myghte hathe Ballaunce upp theire Joyes
Seekinge the saynt in whome all graces dwell
What stormes founde me what tormentes I did fynde
Who seekes to knowe aquayntes hime self with hell
But nowe successe hathe gott above annoyes
That sorrowes myghte hathe Ballaunce upp theire Joyes
The merchaunte man whome mayne seas hathe taughte
What horrorres breede where mynde domynione beares
Yett never rocke nor Race suche terrour broughte
When storme or shelfes hee feares
For nature hathe that never faylinge scopes
Moste lothe to loss the most aprochinge hoope
What horrorres breede where mynde domynione beares
Yett never rocke nor Race suche terrour broughte
When storme or shelfes hee feares
For nature hathe that never faylinge scopes
Moste lothe to loss the most aprochinge hoope
The laborer whose tyered bodye makes
Howlde deere his worke with sighes eache chaunge attendes
But as noe chaunge so pychinge care he takes
As happy shewe of corne when harvest sendes
For Reason woulde greate lighte of hoped blisse
Makes great the losse, soe greate the feare to mysse.
Howlde deere his worke with sighes eache chaunge attendes
But as noe chaunge so pychinge care he takes
As happy shewe of corne when harvest sendes
For Reason woulde greate lighte of hoped blisse
Makes great the losse, soe greate the feare to mysse.
Thus tossed in my shippe of huge desyer
Thus toylinge in my minde of raginge love
Nowe that I spye the haven my thoughtes requier
Now that some flower of fruites my paynes doe prove
My dreades augment the more in passions myghte
Since love with care and hope with feare doe fighte
Thus toylinge in my minde of raginge love
Nowe that I spye the haven my thoughtes requier
Now that some flower of fruites my paynes doe prove
My dreades augment the more in passions myghte
Since love with care and hope with feare doe fighte
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |