In presence prest of people, mad or wise; In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray; Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell; In hill, or dale, or in the foaming flood; Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell; Sick or in health, in evil fame or good; Hers will I be, and only with this thought Content myself, although my chance be SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554–1586) Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest SONNETS XXXI With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heavenly. place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.1 Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet. Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? XXXIX Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot. of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 1 discloses bed, A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. XLI Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make. How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella looked on; and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. LEAVE ME, O LOVE, WHICH REACHEST BUT TO DUST Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust, And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; |