SIR PHILIP
SIDNEY.

TO SLEEP.

COME Sleep, O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,

1554-1586. 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.
Oh! make in me those civil wars to cease;

I will good tribute pay if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head:

And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

SIR PHILIP
SIDNEY.

1554-1586.

THE SOURCE OF FAME.

You that do search for every purling spring,

Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,

And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your posy wring;
You that do dictionaries' method bring
Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;

You that poor Petrarch's long deceased woes

With new-born sighs and wit disguised sing;

You take wrong ways: those far-fetched helps be such

As do bewray a want of inward touch :

And sure at length stolen goods do come to light.

But if, both for your love and skill, your name

You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of fame,

Stella behold, and then begin t' endite.

HIS DEBT TO STELLA.

SIR PHILIP HAVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance

SIDNEY.

1554-1586.

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;

Townfolks 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 of 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.

SIR PHILIP
SIDNEY.

1554-1586.

TO THE MOON.

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.
Then, even 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?

THOMAS WATSON.

1560-1592.

HIS MISTRESS ASLEEP.

I SAW the object of my pining thought,

Within a garden of sweet Nature's placing :

Wherein an arbour artificial wrought,

By workman's wondrous skill the garden gracing,
Did boast his glory, glory far renowned,
For in his shady boughs my Mistress slept :
And with a garland of his branches crowned,
Her dainty forehead from the sun ykept.
Imperious love upon her eyelids tending,
Playing his wanton sports at every beck,
And into every finest limb descending,
From eyes to lips from lips to ivory neck.
And every limb supplied and t' every part

Had free access but durst not touch her heart.