 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
The 7. Wonders of England.
Neere
Wilton sweete, huge heapes of stones are found,
But so confusde, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor reason reason trye,
What force brought them to so unlikely ground.
But so confusde, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor reason reason trye,
What force brought them to so unlikely ground.
To stranger weights my mindes waste soile is bound,
Of passion hilles reaching to reasons skie,
From fancies earth passing all numbers bound,
Passing all ghesse, whence into me should fly
So mazde a masse, or if in me it growes,
A simple soule should breed so mixed woes.
Of passion hilles reaching to reasons skie,
From fancies earth passing all numbers bound,
Passing all ghesse, whence into me should fly
So mazde a masse, or if in me it growes,
A simple soule should breed so mixed woes.
The Bruertons have a Lake, which when the Sunne,
Approching warmes (not else) dead logges up sends,
From hideous depth, which tribute when it ends,
Sore signe it is, the Lords last thred is spun.
Approching warmes (not else) dead logges up sends,
From hideous depth, which tribute when it ends,
Sore signe it is, the Lords last thred is spun.
313
My lake is sense, whose still streames never runne,
But when my Sunne her shining twinnes there bends,
Then from his depth with force in her begunne,
Long drowned hopes to watrie eyes it lends:
But when that failes, my dead hopes up to take,
Their master is faire warn'd his will to make.
But when my Sunne her shining twinnes there bends,
Then from his depth with force in her begunne,
Long drowned hopes to watrie eyes it lends:
But when that failes, my dead hopes up to take,
Their master is faire warn'd his will to make.
We have a fish, by strangers much admirde,
Which caught, to cruell search yeelds his chiefe part:
(With gall cut out) closde up againe by art,
Yet lives untill his life be new requirde.
Which caught, to cruell search yeelds his chiefe part:
(With gall cut out) closde up againe by art,
Yet lives untill his life be new requirde.
A stranger fish, my selfe not yet expirde,
Though rapt with beauties hooke, I did impart
My selfe unto th'Anatomy desirde,
In steed of gall, leaving to her my hart:
Yet live with thoughts closde up, till that she will
By conquests right in steed of searching kill.
Though rapt with beauties hooke, I did impart
My selfe unto th'Anatomy desirde,
In steed of gall, leaving to her my hart:
Yet live with thoughts closde up, till that she will
By conquests right in steed of searching kill.
Peake hath a Cave, whose narrow entries finde,
Large roomes within, where droppes distill amaine:
Till knit with cold, though there unknowne remaine,
Decke that poore place with Alablaster linde.
Large roomes within, where droppes distill amaine:
Till knit with cold, though there unknowne remaine,
Decke that poore place with Alablaster linde.
Mine eyes the streight, the roomie cave, my minde,
Whose clowdie thoughts, let fall an inward raine
Of sorrowes droppes till colder reason binde
Their running fall into a constant vaine
Of trueth, farre more then Alablaster pure,
Which though despisde, yet still doth truth endure.
Whose clowdie thoughts, let fall an inward raine
Of sorrowes droppes till colder reason binde
Their running fall into a constant vaine
Of trueth, farre more then Alablaster pure,
Which though despisde, yet still doth truth endure.
A field there is, where if a stake be prest,
Deepe in the earth, what hath in earth receipt,
Is chang'd to stone, in hardnesse, cold, and weight,
The wood, above doth soone consuming rest.
Deepe in the earth, what hath in earth receipt,
Is chang'd to stone, in hardnesse, cold, and weight,
The wood, above doth soone consuming rest.
The earth, her eares: the stake is my request:
Of which, how much may pierce to that sweet seate,
To honor turnd, doth dwell in honors nest,
Keeping that forme, though void of wonted heate:
But all the rest, which feare durst not applie,
Failing themselves, with withered conscience dye.
Of which, how much may pierce to that sweet seate,
To honor turnd, doth dwell in honors nest,
Keeping that forme, though void of wonted heate:
But all the rest, which feare durst not applie,
Failing themselves, with withered conscience dye.
314
Of ships, by shipwrack cast on Albion coast,
Which rotting on the rockes, their death do dye:
From wodden bones, and bloud of pitch doth flie
A bird which gets more life then ship had lost.
Which rotting on the rockes, their death do dye:
From wodden bones, and bloud of pitch doth flie
A bird which gets more life then ship had lost.
My ship, desire, with winde of lust long tost,
Brake on faire cleeves of constant chastitie:
Where plagu'd for rash attempt, gives up his ghost,
So deepe in seas of vertue beauties ly.
But of this death flies up a purest love,
Which seeming lesse, yet nobler life doth move.
Brake on faire cleeves of constant chastitie:
Where plagu'd for rash attempt, gives up his ghost,
So deepe in seas of vertue beauties ly.
But of this death flies up a purest love,
Which seeming lesse, yet nobler life doth move.
These wonders England breedes, the last remaines,
A Ladie in despite of nature chaste.
On whome all love, in whom no love is plaste,
Where fairenesse yeelds to wisdomes shortest raines.
A Ladie in despite of nature chaste.
On whome all love, in whom no love is plaste,
Where fairenesse yeelds to wisdomes shortest raines.
An humble pride, a skorne that favour staines:
A womans mould, but like an Angell graste,
An Angells mind, but in a woman caste:
A heaven on earth, or earth that heaven containes:
Now thus this wonder to myselfe I frame,
She is the cause that all the rest I am.
A womans mould, but like an Angell graste,
An Angells mind, but in a woman caste:
A heaven on earth, or earth that heaven containes:
Now thus this wonder to myselfe I frame,
She is the cause that all the rest I am.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |