107. Stella, since thou so right a princess art SONGS FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. Seventh Song. Stella singing. Whose senses in so ill consort their step-dame Nature lays, That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes do not raise ; Or if they do delight therein, yet are so closed with wit, As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it; O let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in Wonder's schools, To be, in things past bounds of wit, fools-if they be not fools! Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweet Beauty's show, Hear then, but then with wonder hear, see, but adoring, see, No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits, now here descended be: See, do you see this face? a face, nay, image of the skies, Of which, the two life-giving lights are figured in her eyes : Hear you this soul-invading voice, and count it but a voice? The very essence of their tunes, when angels do rejoice! Tenth Song. Absence. O dear life, when shall it be That mine eyes thine eyes shall see, Whether absence have had force Thy remembrance to divorce From the image of thy lover? Or if I myself find not, After parting, aught forgot, Nor debarred from Beauty's treasure, Let not tongue aspire to tell In what high joys I shall dwell; Thought, therefore, I will send thee Thought, see thou no place forbear, Think of that most grateful time in my lips to have his biding, Think, think of those dallyings, Joying till joy makes us languish. O my thought, my thoughts surcease, My life melts with too much thinking; Till thou shalt revived be, At her lips my nectar drinking. [From the collection of Miscellaneous Poems first published in the Arcadia of 1595, under the heading of Certain Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney never before printed.] PHILOMELA. The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorne her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth A DIRGE Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread; For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain : Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly; His winding-sheet is shame ; His will, false-seeming wholly ; His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, 'Her eyes were once his dart.' From so ungrateful fancy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Alas, I lie rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead; Love is not dead, but sleepeth Where she his counsel keepeth, Therefore from so vile fancy, I. Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare, 2. Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; |