 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
[Harke plaintfull ghostes, infernall furies harke]
Harke
plaintfull ghostes, infernall furies harke
Unto my woes the hatefull heavens do sende,
The heavens conspir'd, to make my vitall sparke
A wreched wracke, a glasse of Ruines ende.
Unto my woes the hatefull heavens do sende,
The heavens conspir'd, to make my vitall sparke
A wreched wracke, a glasse of Ruines ende.
Seeing, Alas; so mightie powers bende
Their ireful shotte against so weake a marke,
Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lende
Receipte to me, within thy bosome darke.
Their ireful shotte against so weake a marke,
Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lende
Receipte to me, within thy bosome darke.
9
For what is life to dayly dieng minde,
Where drawing breath, I sucke the aire of woe:
Where too much sight, makes all the bodie blinde,
And highest thoughts, downeward most headlong throw?
Thus then my forme, and thus my state I finde,
Death wrapt in flesh, to living grave assign'd.
Where drawing breath, I sucke the aire of woe:
Where too much sight, makes all the bodie blinde,
And highest thoughts, downeward most headlong throw?
Thus then my forme, and thus my state I finde,
Death wrapt in flesh, to living grave assign'd.
Like those sicke folkes, in whome strange humors flowe,
Can taste no sweetes, the sower onely please:
So to my minde, while passions daylie growe,
Whose fyrie chaines, uppon his freedome seaze,
Joies strangers seeme, I cannot bide their showe,
Nor brooke oughte els but well acquainted woe.
Bitter griefe tastes me best paine is my ease,
Sicke to the death, still loving my disease.
Can taste no sweetes, the sower onely please:
So to my minde, while passions daylie growe,
Whose fyrie chaines, uppon his freedome seaze,
Joies strangers seeme, I cannot bide their showe,
Nor brooke oughte els but well acquainted woe.
Bitter griefe tastes me best paine is my ease,
Sicke to the death, still loving my disease.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |