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

Geron. Philisides. Histor.
Geron.
Upp, upp Philisides, Let sorowes goo,
Who yeeldes to woo, dothe but encrease his smarte.
Doo not thy hart, to playntfull Custome bringe,
But, let us singe, sweete tunes doo passyons ease,
And olde man heare, who woulde thy fancyes rayse.

Philisides.
Who myndes to please the mynde drownde in Annoyes?
With outeward Joyes, whiche inlie can not sincke,
As well may thinck, with Oyle to coole the fyer,
Or with desyer, to make suche foe a frende,
Who dothe his sowle to endles mallice bend.

Geron.
Yet sure, an ende, to eche thing tyme dothe give,
Thoughe woes now live, at length thy woes must dye,
Then vertue trye, yf shee can worcke in thee,
That whiche wee see, in many tyme hathe wroughte
And weykest hartes to Constant temper broughte.

Philisides.
Who ever taughte a skilless man to teache,
Or stopp a breache, that never Canon sawe,
Sweete vertues Lawe, barres not a Causefull moane,
Tyme shall in one, my lyfe and sorowes ende,
And mee perchaunce youre Constant temper lende.

Geron.
What can amend, where Phisick ys refused,
The wittes abusde, with will, no Counsell take,
Yet, for my sake, Discover us thy greef
Ofte comes Releef when moste wee seeme in trapp,
The starres thy state, fortune may chaunge thy happ.

Philisides.
Yf fortunes Lapp became my duelling place,
And all the starres conspired to my good
Still were I one, this still shoulde bee my Case,
Ruyns Relique, Cares webb, and sorowes foode,
Synce shee faire fierce to suche estate mee Galles
Whose witt the starres, whose fortune fortune thralles.

Geron.

Alas what falles are fallen unto thy mynde,
That there where thow confest thy mischeef lyes,
Thy witt doste use still, still more harmes to fynde,
Whome witt makes vayne or blynded with his eyes,
What Counsell can preveyle, or Lighte give lighte,
Synce all his force ageanst him self hee tryes,

Then eche Conceypt that enters in by sighte,
Ys made forsoothe a Jurate of his woes,
Earthe, sea, Aire, heaven, hell and gastly spirit,
Then cryes to senceles thinges wch neither knowes,
What eyleth thee, and yf they know thy mynde
Woulde scorne (in man) theyre kinge, suche feeble shewes.

Rebell, rebell in golden fetters bynde,
This tyrant Love or rather do suppress,
Those rebell thoughtes wch are thy slaves by kynde,
Let not a glittering name thy fancy dresse,
In paynted Clothes because they calle yt love
There ys no hate that can thee more oppresse.

Begin, and half the worcke ys done, to proove,
By raysing up, uppon thy self to stande,
And thincke shee ys a Shee that dothe thee moove
Hee water plowes, and soweth in the sande,
And hopes the flickering wynde with nett to holde
Who hathe his hopes layde up in womans hande.

What man ys hee that hathe his freedome soulde?
Ys hee a manlike man, that dothe not knowe a Man?
Hathe power that sexe with brydle to withholde,
A ficle sex and true in trust to no man.
A servant sex, soone prowde yf they bee coyde
And to Conclude, thy Mistris ys a woman.

Those wordes did once the Lovelyest Shepearde use,
That erste I knewe and with moste playnefull Muse
Yet not of woemen Judging, as hee sayde,
But forste with rage, his Rage on them obrayde.

Philisides.

O Godds how longe this oulde foole hathe anoyde?
My wearyed eares, O gods yet graunte mee this,
That, soone the worlde of his false tongue bee voyde,
O Noble aige who past theyre onely blisse
In beeyng hearde, untill the hearer dye,
Uttering a Serpentes mynde, with Serpentes hisse.

Then, who will heare a well authorized lye?
And patience hathe, let him go learne of him,
What swarmes of vertues did in his youthe flie
Suche hartes of brass, wyse heddes, and garmentes trym̄,
Were in his dayes, whiche hearde, one no thing heares,
Yf from his wordes the falsehoodes hee do skym.

And here in moste theyre folly vayne appeares,
That since they still alledge when they were younge,
Yt shewes they fetche theyre witt from yowthfull yeares,
Lyke beaste for sacrifice, where (save the tongue,
And Belly) noughte ys lefte, suche sure ys hee,
This lyfe Deade man in this oulde Dongeon flonge.

Oulde howses are throwne Downe, for newe wee see,
The Ouldest Rammes are called from the flock,
No man dothe wishe his Horse shoulde aged bee,
The Auncyent Oke well makes a fyered block,
Olde men them selves do love younge wyves to choose,
Onely fond youthe admires a Rotten stock.

Who once a white long bearde well handle Doose,
(As his bearde him, not hee his bearde did beare)
Thoughe Cradle witted must not honor loose,
O, when will men leave of to judge by heare,
And thinck them Oulde, that have the Ouldest mynde,
With vertue fraughte, and full of holy feare.

[Geron.]

Yf that thy face were hidd, or I were blynde,
I yet shoulde knowe, a young man speaketh now?
Suche wandering reasons in thy speeche I fynde,
Hee ys a Beaste, that Beastes use will allowe,
For proof of man, who spronge of heavenly fyer
Hathe strongest sowle, when moste his Raynes do bowe.

But fondlinges fonde knowe not youre owne desyer,
Loathe to dye younge, and then yow must bee oulde,
Fondly blame that to whiche youre selves aspier,
But, this lighte Choler, that dothe make yow bolde,
Rather to wronge, then unto just Defence,
Ys past with mee, my blood ys waxen colde.

Thy wordes, though full of malapert offence,
I weyghe them not, but still will thee advise,
How thow from foolish Love mayste purge thy sence,
First, thincke they err, that thinck them gayly wyse,
Who well can sett a passion oute to shewe,
Suche sighte have they that see with gogling eyes,

Passyon beares hye, when puffing witt dothe blowe,
But ys in deede a Toye, yf not a Toye,
Trewe Cause of evills, and Cause of Causeles woe,
Yf once thow mayste that fancyes glosse destroy,
Within thy self thow soone wilt bee asshamed,
To bee a Player of thyne owne Anoy.

Then let thy mynde with better Bookes bee tamed,
Seeke to espye her faultes aswell as prayse,
And let thy eyes to other sportes bee framed,
In hunting Fearefull Beastes, do spende some dayes,
Or catche the Byrdes with Pittfoldes, or with Lyme,
Or trayne the foxe, that traynes so Crafty layes.

Lye but to sleepe, and in the earthly Prime,
Seeke skill of herbes in hilles, haunte brookes nere nighte,
And trye with bayte, howe fish will byte some tyme,
Go grafte ageane, and seeke to grafte them righte,
Those pleasant plantes, those sweete and fruitfull trees,
Whiche bothe the Pallat, and the eyes delighte,

Cherish the hyves of wysely paynfull Bees,
Let speciall Care uppon thy flock bee stayde,
Suche Active mynde, but sildome passyon sees.

Philisides.
Hathe any man hearde, what this Oulde man sayde?
Truely not, I, who did my thoughtes engage?
Where all my paynes, one Looke of hers hathe payde.

Histor.
Thus may yow see howe youthe esteemeth aige,
And never hathe therof a rightly deemde
While hott desyers do raigne in fancyes rage,
Till Age yt self do make yt self esteemed.