 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
35
[My Lute which in thy selfe thy tunes enclose]
My
Lute which in thy selfe thy tunes enclose,
Thy mistresse song is now a sorrow's crie,
Her hand benumde with fortunes daylie blows,
Her minde amaz'de can neithers helpe applie.
Weare these my words as mourning weede of woes,
Blacke incke becommes the state wherein I dye.
And though my mones be not in musicke bound,
Of written greefes, yet be the silent ground.
Thy mistresse song is now a sorrow's crie,
Her hand benumde with fortunes daylie blows,
Her minde amaz'de can neithers helpe applie.
Weare these my words as mourning weede of woes,
Blacke incke becommes the state wherein I dye.
36
Of written greefes, yet be the silent ground.
The world doth yeeld such ill consorted shows,
With circkled course, which no wise stay can trye,
That childish stuffe which knowes not frendes from foes,
(Better despisde) bewondre gasing eye.
Thus noble golde, downe to the bottome goes,
When worthlesse corke, aloft doth floting lye.
Thus in thy selfe, least strings are loudest founde,
And lowest stops doo yeeld the hyest sounde.
With circkled course, which no wise stay can trye,
That childish stuffe which knowes not frendes from foes,
(Better despisde) bewondre gasing eye.
Thus noble golde, downe to the bottome goes,
When worthlesse corke, aloft doth floting lye.
Thus in thy selfe, least strings are loudest founde,
And lowest stops doo yeeld the hyest sounde.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |