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VERSES ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
By EDMUND SPENSER.
YOU knew — who knew not? — Astrophel.
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things known permit me to renew:
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say — you hear — too much.
Within these woods of Arcady,
He chief delight and pleasure took;
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The Muses met him every day,
That taught him song to write and say.
When he descended from the mount,
His personage seemed most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerful eyne.
To hear him speak and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.
A sweet attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by looks;
Continual comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospel books:
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things known permit me to renew:
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say — you hear — too much.
Within these woods of Arcady,
He chief delight and pleasure took;
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The Muses met him every day,
That taught him song to write and say.
When he descended from the mount,
His personage seemed most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerful eyne.
To hear him speak and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.
A sweet attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by looks;
Continual comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospel books:
151
I trow that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in th' eye.
Above all others, this is he,
Which erst approvèd in his song
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame
To love a man of virtuous name.
Did never love so sweetly breathe
In any mortal breast before:
Did never Muse inspire beneath
A poet's brain with finer store.
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beauty rear'd above her height.
Whose thoughts are legible in th' eye.
Above all others, this is he,
Which erst approvèd in his song
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame
To love a man of virtuous name.
Did never love so sweetly breathe
In any mortal breast before:
Did never Muse inspire beneath
A poet's brain with finer store.
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beauty rear'd above her height.
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