When he was nine years old and a student at Shrewsbury School, Sidney met Fulke Greville, who was to become his lifelong friend and biographer. Sidney attended Oxford for four years; through the offices of his father and his uncle, the famous Earl of Leicester, he had a ready entree to court. He quickly became one of the favorites of Queen Elizabeth, who sent him on missions to France, Germany, Italy, Hungary, and the Netherlands. He and Greville and Edward Dyer were close literary associates, but they did not strongly influence each other’s writings. Sidney was knighted in 1583, and was sent to the Netherlands as Governor of Flushing in 1585. The following year he died from a wound received in combat at the battle of Zutphen.
Nothing of Sidney’s was published during his lifetime. He was well known as a poet during his brief years at court, but his real fame came after his death, partly as a result of the quality of his poetry and partly as a result of his personal legend. His Defence of Poesie, written in reply to the attack upon poetry and decadent drama by Stephen Gosson, is a compendium of the fashionable “new” literary thought of the later sixteenth century. The ideas in the Defence are gathered from those critics, Italian and Latin, most closely identified with the Petrarchan movement in Italy, and they are held together by Sidney’s rhetoric and enthusiasm. Generally speaking, Sidney’s best verse is found in his songs rather than in the more famous sonnets of Astrophil and Stella.
TEXT:
The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney, in 4 vols., edited by A. Feuillerat (1912–26).
The Poems of Sir Philip Sidney, edited by William A. Ringler (1962).
SONNETS FROM ASTROPHIL AND STELLA
31: With how sad steps
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst 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?
39: Come, Sleep, O Sleep
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.
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.
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,
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-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.
74: I never drank of Aganippe well
I never drank of Aganippe well,
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit,
And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell;
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit.
Some do I hear of poets’ fury tell,
But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it;
And this I swear by blackest brook of hell,
I am no pick-purse of another’s wit.
How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Guess we the cause: What, is it thus? Fie, no.
Or so? Much less. How then? Sure thus it is:
My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella’s kiss.
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody,
Now, blessëd you, bear onward blessëd me
To her where I my heart, safeliest, shall meet:
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honored by public heed,
By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot,
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed,
And, that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!
ONLY JOY, NOW HERE YOU ARE
Only Joy, now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care.
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet reward for sharpest pain:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Night hath closed all in her cloak,
Twinkling stars love-thoughts provoke,
Danger hence good care doth keep,
Jealousy itself doth sleep;
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Better place no wit can find,
Cupid’s yoke to loose or bind;
These sweet flowers on fine bed too,
Us in their best language woo:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
This small light the moon bestows
Serves thy beams but to disclose,
So to raise my hap more high;
Fear not else, none can us spy:
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
That you heard was but a mouse;
Dumb sleep holdeth all the house.
Yet asleep, methinks, they say,
“Young fools, take time while you may.”
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Niggard Time threats, if we miss
This large offer of our bliss,
Long stay ere he grant the same:
Sweet, then, while each thing doth frame,
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.
Your fair mother is a-bed,
Candles out and curtains spread;
She thinks you do letters write;
Write, but first let me indite.
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Sweet, alas, why strive you thus?
Concord better fitteth us.
Leave to Mars the force of hands:
Your power in your beauty stands.
Take thee to me, and me to thee.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
Me to hate but I forbear?
Cursëd be my destines all
That brought me so high to fall.
Soon with my death I will please thee.
“No, no, no, no, my dear, let be.”
O DEAR LIFE, WHEN SHALL IT BE?
O dear life, when shall it be
That mine eyes thine eyes may see,
And in them thy mind discover
Whether absence have had force
Thy remembrance to divorce
From the image of thy lover?
O 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:
Only thought aims at the pleasure.
Thought, therefore, will I send thee
To take up the place for me:
Long I will not after tarry.
There, unseen, thou mayst be bold
Those fair wonders to behold
Which in them my hopes do carry.
Thought, see thou no place forbear;
Enter bravely everywhere;
Seize on all to her belonging.
But if thou wouldst guarded be,
Fearing her beams, take with thee
Strength of liking, rage of longing.
Think of that most grateful time
When my leaping heart will climb
In thy lips to have his biding,
There those roses for to kiss
Which do breathe a sugared bliss,
Opening rubies, pearls dividing.
Think of my most princely power
When I blessëd shall devour
With my greedy licorous senses
Beauty, music, sweetness, love,
While she doth against me prove
Her strong darts but weak defences.
Think, think of those dallyings
When with dovelike murmurings,
With glad moaning, passëd anguish,
We change eyes, and heart for heart
Each to other do impart,
Joying till joy makes us languish.
O my thought, my thoughts surcease!
Thy delights my woes increase:
My life melts with too much thinking.
Think no more, but die in me,
Till thou shalt revivëd be
At her lips, my nectar drinking.
WHO IS IT THAT THIS DARK NIGHT
“Who is it that this dark night
Underneath my window plaineth?”
It is one who from thy sight
Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth
Every other vulgar light.
Be not yet those fancies changëd?”
Dear, when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estrangëd,
Let my change to ruin be.
“Well, in absence this will die;
Leave to see and leave to wonder.”
Absence sure will help, if I
Can learn how myself to sunder
From what in my heart doth lie.
“But time will these thoughts remove;
Time doth work what no man knoweth.”
Time doth as the subject prove;
With time still the affection groweth
In the faithful turtle dove.
“What if you new beauties see;
Will not they stir new affection?”
I will think they pictures be,
Image-like of saints’ perfection,
Poorly counterfeiting thee.
“But your reason’s purest light
Bids you leave such minds to nourish.”
Dear, do reason no such spite;
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason’s sight.
“But the wrongs love bears will make
Love at length leave undertaking.”
No, the more fools it do shake,
In a ground of so firm making
Deeper still they drive the stake.
“Peace, I think that some give ear;
Come no more lest I get anger.”
Bliss, I will my bliss forbear,
Fearing, sweet, you to endanger;
But my soul shall harbor there.
Lest that Argus’ eyes perceive you.”
O unjust is Fortune’s sway,
Which can make me thus to leave you,
And from louts to run away.
WHAT TONGUE CAN HER PERFECTIONS TELL?
What tongue can her perfections tell
In whose each part all pens may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
In curlëd knots man’s thought to hold,
But that her forehead says, “In me
A whiter beauty you may see.”
Whiter indeed, more white than snow
Which on cold Winter’s face doth grow:
That doth present those even brows
Whose equal line their angles bows;
Like to the Moon, when, after change,
Her hornëd head abroad doth range,
And arches be two heavenly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair even praise doth stain;
No lamp whose light by Art is got,
No sun which shines and seeth not,
Can liken them, without all peer
Save one as much as other clear;
Which only thus unhappy be
Because themselves they cannot see.
Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side,
Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride.
Her nose, her chin, pure ivory wears,
No purer then the pretty ears,
So that therein appears some blood,
Like wine and milk that mingled stood;
In whose incirclets if ye gaze
Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze,
But with such turns the voice to stray,
No talk untaught can find the way.
The tip no jewel needs to wear,
The tip is jewel of the ear.
But who those ruddy lips can miss,
Which, blessëd, still themselves do kiss?
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hue,
Which never part but that they show
Of precious pearl the double row;
The second sweetly-fencëd ward,
Her heavenly-dewëd tongue to guard,
Whence never word in vain did flow.
Fair under these doth stately grow
The handle of this pleasant work,
The neck, in which strange graces lurk:
Such be, I think, the sumptuous towers
Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers.
So good assay invites the eye
A little downward to espy
The lively clusters of her breasts,
Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests:
Like pommels round of marble clear,
Where azured veins well-mixed appear,
With dearest tops of porphyry.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthy Beauty’s fame
Than that which bears the milky name.
This leads unto the joyous field
Which only still doth lilies yield;
But lilies such whose native smell
The Indian odors doth excel:
Waist it is called, for it doth waste
Men’s lives until it be embraced.
There may one see, and yet not see,
Her ribs in white well armëd be,
More white than Neptune’s foamy face
When struggling rocks he would embrace.
In these delights the wandering thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite
In curious circle busy sight:
A dainty seal of virgin-wax,
Where nothing but impression lacks.
The belly, then, glad sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupid’s hill,
A hill most fit for such a master,
A spotless mine of alabaster,
Like alabaster fair and sleek,
But soft and supple satin-like.
In that sweet seat the boy doth sport;
Loath I must leave his chief resort,
For such a use the world hath gotten
The best things still must be forgotten.
Yet never shall my song omit
Those thighs, for Ovid’s song more fit,
Which flankëd with two sugared flanks,
Lift up her stately-swelling banks,
That Albion clives in whiteness pass,
With haunches smooth as looking-glass.
But, bow all knees! Now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancy sees,
The knots of joy, the gems of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move,
Whose bought incaved doth yield such sight
Like cunning painter shadowing white.
The gartering-place, with child-like sign
Shows easy print in metal fine;
But there again the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves, like crystal skies,
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white than whitest bone of whale.
There oft steals out that round clean foot,
This noble cedar’s precious root,
In show and scent pale violets,
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.
But back unto her back, my Muse!—
Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.
Her shoulders be like two white doves,
Perching within square royal rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skin,
Passing the hate-spot ermelin.
And thence those arms derivëd are:
The phoenix’ wings be not so rare
For faultless length and stainless hue.
Ah, woe is me, my woes renew;
Now course doth lead me to her hand,
Of my first love the fatal band,
Where whiteness doth forever sit:
Nature herself enameled it.
For there with strange compact doth lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory;
There fall those sapphire-colored brooks,
Which conduit-like with curious crooks
Sweet islands make in that sweet land.
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war,
With amethysts they headed are:
Thus hath each part his beauty’s part.
But how the Graces do impart
To all her limbs a special grace,
Becoming every time and place,
Which doth even beauty beautify,
And most bewitch the wretched eye:
How all this is but a fair inn
Of fairer guest which dwells within,
Of whose high praise and praiseful bliss
Goodness the pen, heaven paper is,
The ink immortal fame doth lend.
As I began so must I end:
No tongue can her perfections tell,
In whose each part all pens may dwell.
WHEN TWO SUNS DO APPEAR
When two suns do appear,
Some say it doth betoken wonders near,
As prince’s loss or change.
Two gleaming suns of splendor like I see,
And seeing feel in me
Of prince’s heart quite lost the ruin strange.
But now each where doth range
With ugly cloak the dark envíous Night,
Who, full of guilty spite,
Such living beams should her black seat assail,
Too weak for them our weaker sight doth vail.
No, says fair Moon, my light
Shall bar that wrong, and though it not prevail
Like to my brother’s rays, yet those I send
Hurt not the face which nothing can amend.
OFT HAVE I MUSED
Oft have I mused, but now at length I find
Why those that die, men say they do depart.
Depart!—a word so gentle, to my mind
Weakly did seem to paint Death’s ugly dart.
But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind
Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart:
I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind,
That, parting thus, my chiefest part I part.
Part of my life, the loathëd part to me,
Lives to impart my weary clay some breath:
But that good part, wherein all comforts be,
Now dead, doth show departure is a death—
Yea, worse than death: death parts both woe and joy:
From joy I part, still living in annoy.
THE NIGHTINGALE, AS SOON AS APRIL BRINGETH
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 thorn 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:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken,
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
But I, who, daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
RING OUT YOUR BELLS
Ring out your bells, let mourning shows 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 such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!
Weep, neighbors, 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 holy;
His sole executor blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
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 such a female franzy,
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
In her unmatchëd mind,
Where she his counsel keepeth
Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a franzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!
WHO HATH HIS FANCY PLEASËD
Who hath his fancy pleasëd
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raisëd
On Nature’s sweetest light:
A light which doth dissever
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,
Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lasteth
In life of lover’s heart:
He ever dies that wasteth
In love his chiefest part.
Thus is her life still guarded
In never-dying faith:
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Look, then, and die: the pleasure
Doth answer well the pain.
Small loss of mortal treasure,
Who may immortal gain.
Immortal be her graces,
Immortal is her mind:
They, fit for heavenly places,
This, heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sense that grace descries:
Yet eyes deprivëd be not
From sight of her fair eyes,
Which, as of inward glory
They are the outward seal,
So may they live still sorry,
Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleasëd
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raisëd
On Nature’s sweetest light.
THOU BLIND MAN’S MARK
Thou blind man’s mark, thou fool’s self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy’s scum, and dregs of scattered thought;
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought:
Desire! Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who should my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought,
In vain thou mad’st me to vain things aspire,
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire,
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught:
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.
Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things.
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide
Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
prease: press or throng.
sleight: skill.
Aganippe well: the fountain on Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses.
Argus: the legendary giant with a hundred eyes.
incirclets: i.e., curls.
clives: cliffs.
bought: bend or curve; i.e., of the knees.
mews: molts or sheds.
comfits: sweetmeats.
march pane: a fancy cake.
ermelin: ermine.
Tereus: the husband of Procne, who raped Philomela; out of pity, the gods turned Procne into a swallow and Philomela into a nightingale.
trentals: masses for the dead.