 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
352
[Faire rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?]
[Basilius.]Faire rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?
Peace? who debars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nie?
O I doo know what guest I doo meete: it is Echo.
Well mett Echo; aproch, and tell me thy will too.
Echo, what doo I get yeelding my sprite to my grieves?
What medicine may I finde for a paine that drawes me to death?
O pois'nous medicine: what worse to me can be then it?
In what state was I then, when I tooke this deadly disease?
And what maner a minde, which had to that humor a vaine?
Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove?
Oft prove I: but what salve, when Reason seeks to be gone?
O what is it? what is it, that may be a salve to my love?
What doo lovers seeke for, long seeking for t'enjoye?
What be the joyes, for which t'enjoye they went to the paines?
Then to an earnest love what doth best victorie lende?
Ende? but I can never ende: Love will not give me the leave.
How be the mindes disposde, that cannot taste the Physicke?
Yet say againe th'advice for th'ils that I tolde thee.
Doth th'infected wretch of his ill th'extremitie know?
But if he know not his harmes, what guids hath he whilst he be blind?
What blinde guides can he have that leades to a fancie?
Can fancies wante eyes? or he fall that steppeth aloft?
What causes first made these torments on me to light?
Can then a cause be so light, that forceth a man to goe die?
Yet tell, what light thing I had in me to drawe me to die?
Eie-sight made me to yeeld: but what first pearst to my eyes?
353
But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my harte?
Arte? what can be that arte, which thou doost meane by thy speach?
What be the fruites of speaking arte, what growes by the wordes?
O much more then wordes: those wordes serv'd more me to blesse.
O when shall I be knowne, where most to be known I doo long?
Long be thy woes for such bad newes: how recks she my thoughts?
Then, then what doo I gayne, since unt' her will I doo winde?
Winde, tempests, and stormes: yet in ende what gives she desire?
Silly rewarde: yet above women hath she a title.
What great name may I give to so heav'nly a woman?
Woe, but seems to me joye, that agrees to my thought so.
Thinke so: for of my desired blisse it is onely the course.
Curst be thy selfe for cursing that, which leades me to joyes.
What be the sweete creatures where lowly demaundes be not harde?
Harde to be gott, but got constant, to be helde very steeles.
How be they helde unkinde? speake, for th'hast narrowly pry'de.
How can pride come there since springs of beautie be thence?
Horrible is this blasphemie unto the most holie.
Thou li'st, false Echo; their mindes, as vertue, be juste.
Mockst thou those Diamonds, which onely be matcht by the Godds?
Odds? what an odds is there, since them to the heav'ns I preferre?
Tell yet againe, how name ye the goodly made evill?
Devill? in hell where such Devill is, to that hell I doo goe.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |