The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

The scourge of life, and deaths extreame disgrace,
The smoke of hell, the monster called paine,
Long sham'd to be accurst in every place,
By them who of his rude resort complaine.
Lyke crafty wretch by time and travell tought,
His ugly evill in others good to hide,
Late harbers in her face whom nature wrought,
As treasure house where her best gifts do bide.
And so by priviledge of sacred seate,
A seate where beauty shines and vertue raignes,
He hopes for some small praise since she hath great,
Within her beames wrapping his cruell staines.
Ah saucy paine let not thy errour last,
More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.

Wo, wo, to me, on me returne the smart:
My burning tongue hath bred my mistresse paine,
For oft in paine to paine my painefull heart
With her due praise did of my state complaine.
I praisde her eyes whom never chance doth move,
Her breath which makes a sower answer sweete,

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Her milken breasts the nurse of child-like love,
Her legges (O legges) her ay well stepping feete.
Paine heard her praise, and full of inward fire,
(First sealing up my heart as pray of his)
He flies to her, and boldned with desire,
Her face (this ages praise) the thiefe doth kisse.
O paine I now recant the praise I gave,
And sweare she is not worthy thee to have.

Thou paine the onely guest of loath'd constraint,
The child of curse, mans weaknesse foster-child,
Brother to woe, and father of complaint:
Thou paine, thou hated paine, from heav'n exilde,
How holdst thou her, whose eyes constraint doth feare,
Whom curst do blesse, whose weakenesse vertues arme,
Who others woes and plaints can chastly beare:
In whose sweete heav'n Angels of high thoughts swarme.
What courage strange hath caught thy caitife hart,
Fear'st not a face that oft whole harts devowres,
Or art thou from above bid play this part,
And so no helpe gainst envy of those powers?
If thus alas: yet while those partes have wo,
So stay her toung, that she no more say no.

And have I heard her say? ô cruell paine!
And doth she know what mould her beautie beares?
Mournes she in truth, and thinks that others faine?
Feares she to feele, and feeles not others feares?
Or doth she thinke all paine the minde forbeares?
That heavie earth, not fierie sprites may plaine?
That eyes weepe worse then hart in bloodie teares?
That sense feeles more then what doth sense containe?
No, no, she is too wise, she knowes her face
Hath not such paine as it makes others have:
She knows the sicknesse of that perfect place
Hath yet such health, as it my life can save.
But this she thinks, our paine hye cause excuseth,
Where her who should rule paine, false paine abuseth.