The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney In Three Volumes |
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[My mistresse lowers and saith I do not love] |
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| XX. |
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| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
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| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
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| XL. |
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| I. |
 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
[My mistresse lowers and saith I do not love]
My mistresse lowers and saith I do not love:
I do protest and seeke with service due,
In humble mind a constant faith to prove,
But for all this I can not her remove
From deepe vaine thought that I may not be true.
I do protest and seeke with service due,
In humble mind a constant faith to prove,
But for all this I can not her remove
From deepe vaine thought that I may not be true.
If othes might serve, even by the Stygian lake,
Which Poets say, the gods them selves do feare,
I never did my vowed word forsake:
For why should I, whom free choise slave doth make?
Else what in face, then in my fancie beare.
Which Poets say, the gods them selves do feare,
I never did my vowed word forsake:
For why should I, whom free choise slave doth make?
Else what in face, then in my fancie beare.
My Muse therefore for onely thou canst tell,
Tell me the cause of this my causelesse woe,
Tell how ill thought disgrac'd my doing well:
Tell how my joyes and hopes thus fowly fell
To so lowe ebbe that wonted were to flowe.
Tell me the cause of this my causelesse woe,
Tell how ill thought disgrac'd my doing well:
Tell how my joyes and hopes thus fowly fell
To so lowe ebbe that wonted were to flowe.
O this it is, the knotted straw is found
In tender harts, small things engender hate:
A horses worth laid wast the Troyan ground:
A three foote stoole in Greece, made Trumpets sound,
An Asses shade ere now hath bred debate.
In tender harts, small things engender hate:
A horses worth laid wast the Troyan ground:
A three foote stoole in Greece, made Trumpets sound,
An Asses shade ere now hath bred debate.
If Greekes themselves were mov'd with so small cause,
To twist those broyles, which hardly would untwine:
Should Ladies faire be tyed to such hard lawes,
As in their moodes to take a lingring pawse?
I would it not, their mettall is too fine.
To twist those broyles, which hardly would untwine:
Should Ladies faire be tyed to such hard lawes,
As in their moodes to take a lingring pawse?
I would it not, their mettall is too fine.
310
My hand doth not beare witnesse with my hart,
She saith, because I make no wofull laies,
To paint my living death, and endlesse smart:
And so for one that felt god Cupids dart,
She thinks I leade and live too merrie daies.
She saith, because I make no wofull laies,
To paint my living death, and endlesse smart:
And so for one that felt god Cupids dart,
She thinks I leade and live too merrie daies.
Are Poets then the onely lovers true?
Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse:
Who thinke themselves well blest, if they renew
Some good old dumpe, that Chaucers mistresse knew,
And use but you for matters to rehearse.
Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse:
Who thinke themselves well blest, if they renew
Some good old dumpe, that Chaucers mistresse knew,
And use but you for matters to rehearse.
Then good Apollo do away thy bowe:
Take harp and sing in this our versing time:
And in my braine some sacred humour flowe:
That all the earth my woes, sighes, teares may know,
And see you not that I fall now to ryme.
Take harp and sing in this our versing time:
And in my braine some sacred humour flowe:
That all the earth my woes, sighes, teares may know,
And see you not that I fall now to ryme.
As for my mirth, how could I but be glad,
Whilst that me thought I justly made my bost
That onely I the onely Mistresse had:
But now, if ere my face with joy be clad:
Thinke Hanniball did laugh when Carthage lost.
Whilst that me thought I justly made my bost
That onely I the onely Mistresse had:
But now, if ere my face with joy be clad:
Thinke Hanniball did laugh when Carthage lost.
Sweet Ladie, as for those whose sullen cheare,
Compar'd to me, made me in lightnesse found:
Who Stoick-like in clowdie hew appeare:
Who silence force to make their words more deare:
Whose eyes seeme chaste, because they looke on ground:
Beleeve them not for Phisicke true doth finde,
Choler adust is joyed in woman-kinde.
Compar'd to me, made me in lightnesse found:
Who Stoick-like in clowdie hew appeare:
Who silence force to make their words more deare:
Whose eyes seeme chaste, because they looke on ground:
Beleeve them not for Phisicke true doth finde,
Choler adust is joyed in woman-kinde.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |