 Part one of Astrophil and Stella. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney. Part one, Sonnets 1-30. Loving in truth, and feign inverse my love to show, that she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain. Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, knowledge might pity when, and pity grace obtain. I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting inventions stay. Invention, nature's child, fled Stepdame's studies blows, and others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite. Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart, and write. Not at first sight, nor with a dribbid shot, love gave the wound, which while I breathe will bleed. But known worth did in mine of time proceed, till by degrees it had full conquest got. I saw, and liked. I liked, but loved not. I loved, but straight did not what loved agreed. At length to love's decrees I forced agreed. Yet with repining at so partial lot. Now even that footstep of lost liberty is gone. And now, like slave-born muscovite, I call it praise to suffer tyranny. And now employ the remnant of my wit to make myself believe that all is well, while with a feeling skill I paint my hell. Let the dainty wits cry on the sisters' nine, that bravely masked their fancies may be told. Or, Pindar's apes flaunt they in phrases fine, enameling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold. Or else let them in statelier glory shine, ennobling newfound tropes with problems old. Or with strange similes enrich each line of herbs or beasts with ind or afric cold. For me, ensuth, no muse but one I know, phrases and problems from my reach to grow, and strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites. How then? Even thus, in Stella's face I read what love and beauty be. Then all my deed but copying is, what in her nature writes. Virtue, alas, now let me take some rest. Thou sets a bait between my soul and wit. If vain love have my simple soul oppressed, leave what thou likes not. Deal not thou with it. The scepter use in some old Cato's breast. Churches or schools are for thy seat more fit. I do confess, pardon a fault confessed. My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit. But if that needs thou wilt usurping be, the little reason that is left in me, and still the fact of thy persuasions prove, I swear my heart such one shall show to thee that shrines in flesh so true a deity, that virtue thou thyself shall be in love. It is most true that eyes are formed to serve the inward light, and that the heavenly part ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve rebels to nature strive for their own smart. It is most true. What we call cupids dart, an image is, which for ourselves we carve. And fools adore in temple of our heart, till that good God make church and churchmen starve. True. That true beauty virtue is indeed, whereof this beauty can be but a shade, which elements with mortal mixture breed. True. That on earth we are but pilgrims made, and should in soul up to our country move. True. And yet true, that I must stellar love. Some lovers speak when they their muses entertain, of hopes begot by fear, of what not what desires, of force of heavenly beams, infusing hellish pain, of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires. Some one his song in jove, and jove's strange tales attires, broidered with bulls and swans, powdered with golden rain. Another humbler wit to shepherd's pipe retires, yet hiding royal blood full often rural vein. To some a sweetest plaint, a sweetest style affords, while tears pour out his ink, and sighs breath out his words, his paper pale despair, and pain his pendoth move. I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they. But think that all the map of my state I display, when trembling voice brings forth that I do stellar love. When nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes, in color black why rapt she beam so bright? Would she in beamy black like painter wise, frame daintiest luster, mixed of shades and light? Or did she else that sober hue devise, in object best to knit and strength our sight, lest if no veil those brave gleams did disguise, they sun-like should more dazzle than delight? Or would she her miraculous power show, that whereas black seems beauty's contrary, she even if black doth make all beauty's flow? Both so and thus. She, minding love should be placed ever there, gave him this morning weed to honor all their deaths, who for her bleed. Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place, forced by a tedious proof, that Turkish hardened heart is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart, and pleased with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race. But finding these north climbs do coldly him embrace, not used to frozen clips, he straved to find some part, where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art. At length he perched himself in Stella's joyful face, whose fair skin, beamy eyes like morning sun on snow, deceived the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light effects of lively heat must needs in nature grow. But she most fair, most cold, made him thence take his flight to my close heart, where while some fire-brands he did lay, he burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away. Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face, prepared by nature's choicest furniture, hath his front built of alabaster pure, gold in the covering of that stately place. The door by which sometimes comes forth her grace, red porphyres, which lock of pearl makes sure, whose porches rich, which name of cheeks endure, marble mixed red and white do interlace. The windows now through which this heavenly guest looks o'er the world, and can find nothing such, which dare claim from those lights the name of best, of touch they are that without touch doth touch, which cupid self from beauty's mind did draw, of touch they are, and poor I am their straw. Reason, in faith thou art well served, that still what'st brabbling be with sense and love in me. I rather wish thee climb the muses hill, or reach the fruit of nature's choicest tree, or seek heaven's course or heaven's inside to see. Why shuts thou toil our thorny soil to till? Leave sense, and those which senses objects be. Deal thou with powers of thought, leave love to will. But thou what'st needs fight both with love and sense, with sword of wit giving wounds of dispraise, till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence. For soon as they strike thee with stellar's rays, reason thou kneeltst, and offered straight to prove by reason good, good reason her to love. In truth, O love, with what a boyish kind thou dost proceed in thy most serious ways, that when the heaven to thee his best displays, yet of that best thou leaveest the best behind. For like a child that some fair book doth find, with gilded leaves or colored vellum plays, or at the most on some fine picture stays, but never heeds the fruit of writer's mind. So when thou sauest in nature's cabinet, Stella, thou straight looks'd babies in her eyes, in her cheeks pit thou didst thy pitfall set, and in her breast the peep or crouching lies, playing and shining in each outward part, but fool seeks not to get into her heart. Cupid, because thou shynest in Stella's eyes, that from her locks thy daynets no escapes free, that those lips swell so full of thee they be, that her sweet breath makes off thy flames to rise, that in her breast thy pap well sugared lies, that he grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that she what words so air she speak persuades for thee, that her clear voice lifts thy fame to the skies. Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powers having got up a breach by fighting well cry, victory this fair day all is ours. Oh, no! her heart is such a citadel, so fortified with wit, stored with disdain, that to win it is all the skill and pain. Phoebus was judged between Jove, Mars, and Love, of those three gods whose arms the fairest were. Jove's golden shield did eagle-sables bear, whose talons held young Ganymede above, but in vert field Mars' bare golden spear, which through a bleeding heart his point did shove. Each had his crest, Mars carried Venus' glove. Jove in his helm the thunderbolt did rear. Cupid them smiles, for on his crest there lies Stella's fair hair, her face he makes his shield, where rose's gules are born in silver field. Phoebus drew wide the curtains of the skies to blaze these last, and swear devoutly then, the first thus matched were scantly gentlemen. Alas! have I not pain enough, my friend, upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire, then did on him who first stole down the fire, while love on me doth all his quiver spend, but with your rhubarb words you must contend, to grieve me worse, in saying that desire doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end. If that be sin which doth the manor's frame, well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed, ready of wit and fearing not but shame, if that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed a loathing of all loose unchastity, then love is sin, and let me sinful be. You that do search for every pearling spring, which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, and every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows near their bouts into your posey ring. You that do dictionary's method bring into your rhymes, running in rattling rows. You that pour Petrarch's long-deceased woes with newborn sighs and denizen wit do sing. You take wrong ways. Those far-fet helps be such as do beret a want of inward touch, and short-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, stellar behold, and then begin to indict. In nature apt to like when I did see beauties, which were of many carrots fine, my boiling sprites did thither soon incline, and love I thought that I was full of thee. But finding not those restless flames in me which others said did make their souls to pine, I thought those babes of some pin's hurt did whine, by my love judging what love's pain might be. But while I thus with this young line played, mine eyes, shall I say cursed or blessed, be held stellar. Now is she named, need more be said. In her sight I, a lesson new have spelled. I now have learned love right, and learned even so, as who by being poisoned doth poison know. His mother, dear Cupid, offended late, because that Mars grown slacker in her love, with pricking shot he did not thoroughly move to keep the pace of their first loving state. The boy refused for fear of Mars's hate, who threatened stripes, if he his wrath did prove. But she inshave him from her lap did shove, break bow, break shafts, while Cupid weeping sat. Till that his grand damn nature pitying it, of stellar's brows make him two better bows, and in her eyes of arrows infinite. O how for joy he leaps, O how he crows, and straight therewith like wags new got to play, falls to shrewd turns, and I was in his way. With what sharp checks I in myself am shant, when into reasons ought it I do go, and by just counts myself a bankrupt know of all the goods, which heaven to me hath lent, unable quite to pay even nature's rent, which unto it by birthright I do owe, and, which is worse, no good excuse can show but that my wealth I have most idly spent. My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toys, my wit doth strive those passions to defend, which for reward spoil it with vain a noise. I see my course to lose myself doth bend, I see, and yet no greater sorrow take, than that I lose no more for stellar's sake. On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent, that see my rack, and yet embrace the same? When most I glory, then I feel most shame, I willing run, yet while I run repent. My best wits still their own disgrace invent, my very ink turns straight to stellar's name, and yet my words as them my pen doth frame, avise themselves that they are vainly spent. For though she pass all things, yet what is all that unto me, who fare like him that both looks to the skies, and doth in a ditch fall? O let me prop my mind, yet in his growth, and not in nature, for best fruits unfit. Scholar, sayeth love, bend hitherward your wit. Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound, fly! See there that boy, that murdering boy, I say, who like a thief hid in dark bush doth lie, till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey. So tyrant he no fitter place could spy, nor so fair level and so secret stay, as that sweet black which veils the heavenly eye, there himself with his shot he close doth lay. Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did, and stayed pleased with the prospect of the place, while that black hue from me the bad guessed hid. But straight I saw motions of lightning-grace, and then described the glistering of his dart, but ere I could fly hence, it pierced my heart. Your words, my friend, write healthful caustics, blame my young mind, Maud, whom love doth windless so that mine own writings like bad servants show my wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame. That Plato I read for naught, but if he tame such doltish gyres, that to my birth I own nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe, great expectation, were a terrain of shame. For since mad march great promise made of me, if now the may of my years much decline, what can be hoped my harvest time will be? Sure you say well, your wisdom's golden mine, dig deep with learnings spade. Now tell me this, hath this world ought so fair as Stella is? In highest way of heaven the sun did ride, progressing then from fair twins golden place, having no scarf of clouds before his face, but shining forth of heat in his chief pride. When some fair ladies by hard promise tied, on horseback met him in his furious race, yet each prepared with fan's well-shading grace, from that foe's wounds their tender skins to hide, Stella alone with face unarmed marched, either to do like him which open shone, or careless of the wealth because her own. Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parched, her daintiest bear went free, the cause was this, the sun which others burned, did her but kiss. The curious wits seeing dull pensiveness berate itself in my long-settled eyes, whence those same fumes of melancholy rise with idle pains and missing aim do guess. Some that know how my spring I did address, deem that my muse some fruit of knowledge plies, others, because the prince my service tries, think that I think state errors to redress. But harder judges, judge ambitions rage, scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place, holds my young brain captive in golden cage. O fools, or over-wise, alas the race of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start, but only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart. Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow, and damning their own selves to tantal's smart, wealth-breeding want, more bliss'd, more wretched grow. Yet to those fools heaven such wit doth impart, as what their hands do hold, their heads do know. And knowing love and loving lay apart, as sacred things far from all dangers show. But that rich fool who by blind fortunes lot, the richest gem of love and life enjoys, and can with foul abuse such beauties blot, let him, deprived of sweet but unfelt joys, exiled for eye from those high treasures which he knows not, grow in only folly rich. The wisest scholar of the white most wise by Phoebus Doom, with sugared sentence says, that virtue, if it once met with our eyes, strange flames of love it in our souls would raise. But for that man with pain his truth discries, whilst he each thing incenses balanced ways, and so nor will nor can behold those skies which inward sun to heroic mind displays. Virtue of late with virtuous care to stir love of herself took Stella's shape, that she to mortal eyes might sweetly shine in her. It is most true, for since I heard it see, virtue's great beauty in that face I prove, and find the fact, for I do burn in love. Though dusty wits dare scorn astrology, and fools can think those lamps of purest light whose numbers, ways, greatness, eternity, promising wonders, wonder do invite, to have for no cause birthright in the sky, but for to spangle the black weeds of night, or for some brawl which in that chamber high they should still dance to please a gazer's sight. For me I do nature unidol know, and know great causes, great effects procure, and know those bodies high reign on the low. And if these rules did fail, proof makes me sure, who oft forejudged my after-following race by only those two stars in Stella's face. Because I oft in dark abstracted guise seem most alone in greatest company, with dearth of words, or answers quite awry, to them that would make speech of speech arise, they deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, that poison fowl of bubbling pride doth lie so in my swelling breast that only I fall on myself, and others do despise. Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, which looks too oft in his unflattering glass, but one worse fault, ambition, I confess, that makes me oft my best friend's overpass, unseen, unheard, while though to highest place spends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. You that with allegories curious frame, of others children changelings use to make, with me those pains for God's sake do not take, I list not dig so deep for brazen fame. When I say, Stella, I do mean the same princess of beauty, for whose only sake the reins of love I love, though never slake, and joy therein though nations counted shame. I beg no subject to use eloquence, nor in hid ways to guide philosophy. Look at my hands for no such quintessence, but know that I in pure simplicity breathe out the flames which burn within my heart. Love only reading unto me this art. Like some weak lords, neighboured by mighty kings, to keep themselves and their chief cities free, do easily yield that all their coasts may be ready to store their camps of needful things. So Stella's heart, finding what power love brings, to keep itself in life and liberty, doth willing grant that in the frontiers he use all to help his other conquerings. And thus her heart escapes, but thus her eyes serve him with shot, her lips his heralds are, her breasts his tents, legs his triumphal car, her flesh his food, her skin his armour brave, and I but for because my prospect lies upon that coast, am given up for a slave. Whether the Turkish new moon minded be to fill his horns this year on Christian coast, how Paul's right king means with leave of host to warm with ill-made fire called Muscovy. If French can yet three parts in one agree, what now the Dutch in their full diets boast, how Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, trust in the shade of pleasing orange tree? How Ulster likes of that same golden bit wherewith my father once made it half tame, if in the scotch court be no weltering yet, these questions busy wits to me do frame, I, cumbered with good manners, answer do, but know not how, for still I think of you. End of part one. Part two of Astrophil and Stella. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney. Part two. Sonnets 31 to 60. With how sad steps, O moon, thou climbs 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 feelest a lover's case. I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace to me that feel alike, thy state describes. 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 scorned, and yet those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue their ungratefulness? Morpheus, the lively son of deadly sleep, witness of life to them that living die, a prophet oft, and oft in history, a poet eek as humours fly or creep. Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep, that never I with closed up sense do lie, but by thy work my stellar I describe, teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep. Thou safe of all acquaintance this to tell? Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl, and gold, to show her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well? Fool, answers he, no indies such treasures hold, but from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee, sweet still as image do I steal to me. I might, unhappy word, owe me, I might, and then would not, or could not see my bliss, till now, wrapped in a most infernal night, I find how heavenly day wretch I did miss. Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right, no lovely Paris made thy Helen his, no force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight, nor fortune of thy fortune author is. But to myself, myself did give the blow, while too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me, that I respects for both our sakes must show, and yet could not, by rising mourn, foresee how fair a day was near, how punished eyes, that I had been more foolish, or more wise. Come, let me write. And to what end? To ease a burdened heart. How can words ease, which are the glasses of thy daily vexing care? oft-cruel fights well pictured forth, do please. Art not ashamed to publish thy disease? Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare. But will not wise men think thy words fondware? Then be they close, and so none shall displease. What idler thing then speak, and not be heard? What harder thing then smart, and not speak? Peace, foolish wit, with wit my wit is marred. Thus write I, while I doubt to write, and wreck my harms on inks poor loss. Perhaps some find Stella's great powers, that so confuse my mind. What may words say, or what may words not say, where truth itself must speak like flattery? Within what bounds can one his liking stay, where nature doth with infinite agree? What nesters counsel can my flames allay, since reasons self doth blow the coal in me? And ah, what hope, that hope should once see day, where Cupid is sworn page to chastity? Honor is honored, that thou dost possess him as thy slave. And now long needy fame doth even grow rich, naming my Stella's name. Wit learns in thee perfection to express, not thou by praise, but praise in thee is raised. It is a praise to praise, when thou art praised. Stella, when stut this new assault arise, a conquered yielden ransacked heart to win, where two long scents through my long battered eyes, whole armies of thy beauties entered in. And there long scents, love thy lieutenant lies, my forces raised, thy banners raised within. Of conquest do not these effects suffice, but wilt now war upon thine own begin, with so sweet voice, and by sweet nature so in sweetest strength, so sweetly skilled with all, in all sweet stratagems sweet art can show, that not my soul, which at thy foot did fall long since, forced by thy beams, but stone nor tree by senses privilege, can escape from thee. My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell, my tongue doth itch, my thoughts in labour be. Listen, then, lordings, with good ear to me, for of my life I must a riddle tell. Toward Aurora's court a nymph doth dwell, rich in all beauties which man's eye can see, beauties so far from reach of words that we abase her praise, saying she doth excel. Rich in the treasure of deserved renown, rich in the treasures of a royal heart, rich in those gifts which give the turnal crown, who though most rich in these and every part, which make the patterns of true worldly bliss, hath no misfortune, but that rich she is. This night, whilst sleep begins with heavy wings to hatch mine eyes, and that unbitted thought doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought to leave the scepter of all subject things. The first that straight my fancies error brings unto my mind is Stella's image, wrought by love's own self, but with so curious draught, that she thinks, not only shines, but sings. I start, look, hark, but what enclosed up sense was held, in opened sense it flies away, leaving me not but wailing eloquence. I, seeing better sights in sights decay, called it anew, and wooed sleep again, but him her host that unkind guest had slain. 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 priests of those fierce darts to spare 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. As good to write as for to lie and groan, O Stella dear, how much thy power hath wrought, that hast my mind, none of the basest, brought my still-kept course while others sleep to moan. Alas! if from the height of virtue's throne, thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought upon a wretch, that long thy grace hath sought, weigh then how I by thee am overthrown. And then, think thus, although thy beauty be made manifest by such a victory, yet noblest conquerors do wrecks avoid. Since then thou hast so far subdued me, that in my heart I offer still to thee, how do not let thy temple be destroyed. 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 and horsemanship advance, town folks my strength, a daintier judge applies his praise to slight, which from good use doth rise, some lucky wits imputed 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 a rye. The true cause is, Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face sent forth the beams, which made so fair my race. O eyes, which do the spheres of beauty move, whose beams be joys, whose joys all virtues be, who while they make love conquer, conquer love, the schools where Venus had learned chastity. O eyes, whose humble looks most glorious prove, only loved tyrants just in cruelty. Do not, O do not from poor me remove, keep still my zenith ever shine on me. For though I never see them, but straight ways my life forgets to nourish languished sprites, yet still on me, O eyes, dart down your rays. And if from majesty of sacred lights oppressing mortal sense my death proceed, wracks triumphs be, which love hyset doth breed. Fair eyes, sweet lips, dear heart, that foolish eye could hope by Cupid's help on you to pray, since to himself he doth your gifts apply, as his main force, choice, sport, and ease will stay. For when he will see who dare him gain say, then with those eyes he looks low, by and by, each soul doth at love's feet his weapons lay, glad if for her he give them leave to die. When he will play, then in her lips he is, where blushing red that loves self them doth love, with either lip he doth the other kiss. But when he will for quiet's sake remove from all the world, her heart is then his room, where well he knows no man to him can come. My words I know do well set forth my mind. My mind bemoans his sense of inward smart. Such smart may pity claim of any heart. Her heart, sweetheart, is of no tiger's kind. And yet she hears, yet I know pity find, but more I cry, less grace she doth impart. Alas! what causes there so overthwart that nobleness itself makes thus unkind? I much do guess, yet find no truth save this. That when the breath of my complaints doth touch those dainty doors unto the court of bliss, the heavenly nature of that place is such, that once come there the sobs of mine a noise are metamorphosed straight to tombs of joys. Stella oft sees the very face of woe, painted in my beclouded stormy face. But cannot skill to pity my disgrace, not though thereof the cause herself she know. Yet hearing late a fable, which did show of lovers never known, a grievous case, pity thereof gaten her breast such place, that from that seed arrived tears springed it flow. Alas! if fancy drawn by imaged things, though false, yet with free scope more grace doth breed than servants wrack, where new doubts honour brings. Then think, my dear, that you and me do read of lovers ruin some sad tragedy. I am not I. Pity the tale of me. I cursed thee oft. I pity now thy case. Blind, hitting boy, since she that thee and me rules with a beck so tyrannize it thee, that thou must want or food or dwelling place, for she protests to banish thee her face. Her face! O love, a rogue thou then shouldst be, if love learn not alone to love and see, without desire to feed of further grace. Alas! poor wag, that now a scholar art to such a schoolmistress, whose lessons knew thou needs must miss, and so thou needs must smart. Yet, dear, let me his pardon get of you, so long, though he from book meesh to desire, till without fuel you can make hot fire. What! have I thus betrayed my liberty? Can those black beams such burning marks engrave in my free side? Or am I born a slave, whose neck becomes such yoke of tyranny? Or want I sense to feel my misery? Or sprite disdain of such disdain to have, who for long faith, though daily help I crave, may get no alms but scorn of beggary? Virtue. Awake. Beauty, but beauty is. I may. I must. I can. I will. I do leave following that, which it is gain to miss. Let her go. Soft. But here she comes. Go to. Unkind. I love you not. O me, that I doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie. Souls joy, bend not those morning stars from me, where virtue is made strong by beauty's might, where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight, and humbleness grows one with majesty. Whatever may ensue, O let me be co-partner of the riches of that sight. Let not mine eyes be hell-driven from that light. O look, O shine, O let me die and see. For though I oft myself of them bemoan, that though my heart their beaming darts be gone, whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed. Yet since my death-wound is already got, dear killer, spare not thy sweet cruel shot, a kind of grace it is to kill with speed. I on my horse, and love on me doth try our horsemen-ships, while by strange work I prove a horseman to my horse, a horse to love. And now man's wrongs in me, poor beast, describe. The reins wherewith my rider doth me tie, are humbled thoughts, which bit of reverence move, curbed in with fear, but with guilt-boss above of hope, which makes it seem fair to the eye. The wand is will, thou fancy, saddle art, girt fast by memory, and while I spur my horse, he spurs with sharp desire my heart. He sits me fast, however I do stir, and now hath made me to his hand so right, that in the manage myself takes delight. Stella, the fullness of my thoughts of thee, cannot be stayed within my panting breast, but they do swell and struggle forth of me, till that in words thy figure be expressed. And yet as soon as they so formed be, according to my lord love's own behest, with sad eyes eye their weak proportions see, to portrait that which in this world is best. So that I cannot choose but write my mind, and cannot choose but put out what I write, while these poor babes their death in birth do find, and now my pen these lines had dashed quite, but that they stopped his fury from the same, because their forefront bear sweet Stella's name. Pardon, mine ears, both I and they do pray, so may your tongue still fluently proceed, to them that do such entertainment need, so may you still have somewhat new to say. On silly me do not the burden lay, of all the grave conceits your brain-death breed, but find some hercules to bear instead of Atlas-tired, your wisdom's heavenly sway. For me, while you discourse of courtly tides, of cunning fishers in most troubled streams, of straying ways when valiant error guides, meanwhile my heart confers with Stella's beams, and is even irked that so sweet comedy by such unsuited speech should hindered be. A strife is grown between virtue and love, while each pretend that Stella must be his. Her eyes, her lips, her all sayeth love, do this, since they do wear his badge most firmly prove. But virtue, thus, that title doth disprove, that Stella—oh, dear name—that Stella is that virtuous soul, sure air of heavenly bliss, not this fair outside which our hearts doth move. And therefore, though her beauty and her grace be loves indeed, in Stella's self he may by no pretence claim any manner place. Well, love, since this demure our suit will stay, let virtue have that Stella's self, yet thus that virtue but that body grant to us. In martial sports I had my cunning tried, and yet to break more staves did me address, while with the people's shouts I must confess, youth, luck, and praise even filled my veins with pride. When Cupid having me his slave described in Mars's livery prancing in the press, What now, sir fool, said he, I would know less. Look here, I say. I looked, and Stella spied, who hard by made a window send forth light. My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes, one hand forgot to rule, the other to fight, nor trumpets sound I heard, nor friendly cries. My foe came on, and beat the air for me, till that her blush taught me my shame to see. Because I breathe not love to every one, nor do not use set colors for to wear, nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, nor give each speech the full point of a groan. The courtly nymphs acquainted with the moan of them, who in their lips loves standard bear. What he, say they of me, now I dare swear he cannot love. No, no, let him alone. And think so still, so Stella know my mind, profess indeed I do not Cupid's art. To you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, that his right badge is worn but in the heart. Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove. They love indeed, who quake to say they love. Muses, I oft invoked your hold aid, with choicest flowers by speech to garland, that it, despised and true by naked show, might win some grace in your sweet grace arrayed. And oft whole troops of saddest words I stayed, striving abroad a foraging to go, until by your inspiring I might know how their black banner might be best displayed. But now I mean no more your help to try, nor other sugaring of my speech to prove, but on her name incessantly to cry. For let me but name her whom I do love, so sweet sounds straight my ear and heart to hit, that I well find no eloquence like it. Fie, school of patience, fie, your lesson is far, far too long to learn it without book. What a whole week without one piece of look, and think I should not your large precepts miss. When I might read those letters fair of bliss, which in her face teach virtue, I could brook somewhat thy leaden councils, which I took as of a friend that meant not much amiss. But now that I, alas, do want her sight, what does thou think that I can ever take in thy cold stuff a phlegmatic delight? No, patience, if thou wilt my good, then make her come, and hear with patience my desire, and then with patience bid me bear my fire. Woe, having made with many fights his own each sense of mine, each gift, each power of mind grown now his slaves, he forced them out to find the thoroughest words fit for woe's self to groan, hoping that when they might find Stella alone, before she could prepare to be unkind, her soul armed but with such a dainty rind, should soon be pierced with sharpness of the moan. She heard my planks, and did not only hear, but them so sweet is she, most sweetly sing, with that fair breast making woe's darkness clear. A pretty case, I hoped her to bring to feel my griefs, and she with face and voice so sweet my pains, that my pains me rejoice. Doubt there hath been, when with his golden chain the orator so far men's hearts doth bind, that no place else their guided steps can find, but as he them more short or slack doth reign. Whether with words this sovereignty he gain, clothes with fine tropes, with strongest reasons lined, or else pronouncing grace, where with his mind prints his own lively form in rudest brain. Now judged by this, in piercing phrases late, the anatomy of all my woe's I rate, Stella's sweet breath the same to me did read. Oh voice, oh face, maugher my speech's might, which woe'd woe most ravishing delight, even those sad words, even in sad me did breed. Dear, why make you more of a dog than me? If he do love, I burn, I burn in love. If he wait well, I never thence would move. If he be fair, yet but a dog can be. Little he is, so little worth is he, he barks, my song's thine own voice off doth prove. Bidden perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove, but I unbid fetch even my soul to thee. Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips, that lap doth lap, nay, let's in spite of spite this sour-breath'd mate taste of those sugared lips. Alas, if you grant only such delight to witless things, then love, I hope, since wit becomes a clog, will soon ease me of it. When my good angel guides me to the place, where all my good I do in Stella's sea, that heaven of joys throws only down on me thundered to stains and lightnings of disgrace. But when the rugged step of fortune's race makes me fall from her sight, then sweetly she, with words wherein the muses treasures be, shows love and pity to my absent case. Now I, wit beaten long by hardest fate, so dull am, that I cannot look into the ground of this fierce love and lovely hate. Then some good body tell me how I do, whose presence, absence, absence presence is, blissed in my curse, and cursed in my bliss. End of Part 2 Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Clutt Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney Part 3 Sonnets 61-84 Offed with true size, offed with uncalled tears, now with slow words, now with dumb eloquence, I, Stella's eyes assail, invade her ears. But this at last is her sweet-breathed defense, that who indeed in felt affection bears, so captives to his saint both soul and sense, that holy hers all selfness he for bears, thence his desires he learns, his life's course thence. Now since her chaste mind hates this love in me, with chastened mind I straight must show that she shall quickly me from what she hates remove. Oh, Doctor Cupid, thou for me reply, driven else to grant by angels' sophistry, that I love not, without I leave to love. Late, tired with woe, even ready for to pine, with rage of love I called my love unkind. She is whose eyes love, though unfelt doth shine, sweet said that I true love in her should find. I joyed, but straight thus watered was my wine. That love she did, but loved a love not blind, which would not let me, whom she loved, decline from nobler course, fit for my birth and mind, and therefore, by her love's authority, will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee, and anchor fast myself on virtue's shore. Alas! if this the only metal be of love, new coined to help my beggary, dear, love me not, that you may love me more. Oh, grammar rules! Oh, now your virtues show, so children still read you with awful eyes, as my young dove may in your precepts wise her grant to me by her own virtue know. For late, with heart most high, with eyes most low, I craved the thing which ever she denies. She, lightning love, displaying Venus' skies, lest once should not be heard, twice said, no, no. Sing, then, my muse, now I owe pay and sing, heaven's envy not at my high triumphing, but grammar's force with sweet success confirm. For grammar says, oh, this dear Stella way, for grammar says, to grammar, who says nay, that in one speech two negatives affirm. Doubt you to whom my muse these notes intendeth, which now my breast or charge to music lendeth. To you, to you all song of praise is due, only in you my song begins and endeth. Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure, who keeps the key of nature's chiefest treasure? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only for you the heaven forget all measure. Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth, who womankind at once both dex and staineth? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only by you cupid his crown maintaineth. Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth, who else for whom fame worthy trumpets wanteth? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only to you her scepter venus granteth. Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions nourish, whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only through you the tree of life doth flourish. Who hath the hand which without strokes subdueth, who long dead beauty with increase reneweth? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only to you all envy hopeless rueth. Who hath the hair which loosest, fastest tyeth, who makes a man live than glad when he dyeth? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only of you the flatterer never lieth. Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders, whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only with you are miracles not wonders. Doubt you to whom I muse these notes intendeth, which now my breast or charged to music lendeth? To you, to you all song of praise is due, only in you my song begins and endeth. No more, my dear, no more these councils try, o give my passions leave to run their race, let fortune lay on me her worst disgrace, let folk or charged with brain against me cry, let clouds be dim my face, break in my eye, let me know steps but have lost labour-trace, let all the earth with scorn recount my case, but do not will me from my love to fly. I do not envy Aristotle's wit, nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame, nor ought to care though some above me sit, nor hope, nor wish another course to frame, but that which once may win thy cruel heart. Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. Love by sure proof I may call thee unkind, that gives no better ear to my just cries. Thou whom to me such my good turns should bind, as I may well recount, but none can prize. For when, naked boy, thou couldst no harbour find in this old world, grown now so too-too wise, I lodged thee in my heart. And being blind by nature-born, I gave to thee mine eyes. Mine eyes, my light, my heart, my life, alas, if so great services may scorn it be, yet let this thought thy tigress' courage pass, that I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee. Since in thine arms, if learned fame truth hath spread, thou bears the arrow, I the arrowhead. And do I see some cause a hope to feed, or doth the tedious burden of long woe in weakened minds, quick apprehension breed, of every image which may comfort show? I cannot brag of word, much less of deed. Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slow. My wealth no more, and no wit less my need. Desire still on the stilts of fear doth go. And yet amid all fears, a hope there is stolen to my heart, since last fair night, nay, day, Stella's eyes sent to me the beams of bliss, looking on me while I looked other way. But when mine eyes back to their heaven did move, they fled with blush, which guilty seemed of love. Hope, art thou true, or dost thou flatter me? Doth Stella now begin with piteous eye the ruins of her conquest to aspire, will she take time before all wracked be? Her eyes' speech is translated thus by thee, but fails thou not in phrase so heavenly high? Look on again, the fair text better dry. What blushing notes dost thou in margin see? What sighs stolen out or killed before full-born? Has thou found such and such like arguments? Or art thou else to comfort me for sworn? Well, how so thou interpret the contents? I am resolved thy error to maintain, rather than by more truth to get more pain. Stella, the only planet of my light, light of my life and life of my desire, chief good where to my hope doth only aspire, world of my wealth and heaven of my delight. Why dost thou spend the treasure of thy sprite with voice more fit to wed Amphion's lyre, seeking to quench in me the noble fire fed by thy worth and kindled by thy sight? And all in vain, for while thy breath most sweet, with choicest words thy words with reasons rare, thy reasons firmly set on virtue's feet, labour to kill in me this killing care. O think I then, what paradise of joy it is, so fair of virtue to enjoy! O joy, too high for my low style to show! O bliss, fit for a nobler state than me! Envy, put out thine eyes, lest thou do see what oceans of delight in me do flow! My friend, that oft saw through all masks my woe! Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee! Gone is the winter of my misery, my spring appears, O see what here doth grow! For Stella hath with words where faith doth shine, of her high heart given me the monarchy. I, I, O I, may say that she is mine, and though she give but thus conditionally this realm of bliss, while virtue's course I take. No kings be crowned, but they some covenants make. My muse may well grudge at my heavenly joy, if still I force her in sad rhymes to creep. She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes to enjoy nectar of mirth, since I, Job's cup, do keep. Sonnets be not bound prentice to annoy, trebles sing high as well as bases deep, Grief but love's winter livery is, the boy hath cheeks to smile as well as eyes to weep. Come, then, my muse, show thou height of delight in well-raised notes, my pen the best it may shall paint out joy, though button black and white. Cease, eager, muse, peace, pen, for my sake stay, I give you here my hand for truth of this. Wise silence is best music unto bliss. Who will, in fairest book of nature, know how virtue may best lodged in beauty be? Let him but learn of love to read in thee, Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show. There shall he find all vices overthrow, not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty of reason, from whose light those night-birds flee, that inward sun in thine eyes shineth so. And no content to be perfections ere, thyself dost strive all minds that way to move, who mark in thee what is in thee most fair. So while thy beauty draws the heart to love, as fast thy virtue bends that love to good, but ah, desire still cries, give me some food. Desire, though thou my old companion art, and oft so clings to my pure love, that I, one from the other, scarcely can describe, while each doth blow the fire of my heart. Now from thy fellowship I needs must part. Venus is taught with Diane's wings to fly. I must know more in thy sweet passions lie. Virtue's gold now must head my cupid's dart. Service and honour, wonder with delight, fear to offend will worthy to appear, care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite. These things are left me by my only dear. But thou desire, because thou wouldst have all now banished art. But yet alas, how shall have I caught my heavenly jewel teaching sleep most fair to be? Now will I teach her that she, when she wakes, is too, too cruel. Since sweet sleep her eyes have charmed the two only darts of love, now will I with that boy prove some play while he is disarmed. Her tongue, waking, still refuses, giving frankly-niggered no. Now will I attempt to know what no her tongue sleeping useeth. See, the hand which waking guardeth, sleeping grants a free resort. Now will I invade the fort, coward's love with loss rewardeth. But oh, fool, think of the danger of her just and high disdain. Now will I alas refrain, love fears nothing else but anger. Yet those lips so sweetly swelling to invite a stealing kiss. Now will I but venture this, who will read must first learn spelling. Oh, sweet kiss! But ah, she is waking, lowering beauty chasens me, now will I away henceflee. Fool! More fool, for no more taking. Love still a boy, and oft a wanton is, schooled only by his mother's tender eye. What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss, when for so soft a rod dear play he try? And yet my star, because a sugared kiss in sport I sucked, while she asleep did lie. Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. Sweet, it was saucy love, not humble eye. But no skews serves, she makes her wrath appear in beauty's throne. See now, who dares come near those scarlet judges threatening bloody pain? Oh, heavenly fool, thy most kissworthy face, that anger invests with such a lovely grace, that anger's self I need's must kiss again. I never drank of aghanipi well, nor ever did in shade of tempi-sit, and muses scorn with vulgar brains to swell, poor laymen I, for sacred rites, unfit. Some do I hear of poets' fury tell, but, God, what? What not what they mean by it? And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, I am no pick-perse of another's wit. How fall 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? Fi, no. Or so? Much less. How, then? Sure, thus it is. My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward named forth, as first in praise I name, not for his fair outside nor well-lined brain, although less gifts imp feathers oft on fame, nor that he could young wise, wise valiant frame his sire's revenge joined with the kingdom's gain, and gained by Mars could yet mad Mars so tame that balance weighed what sword did late obtain. Nor that he made the flower deluce so frayed, though strongly hedged of bloody lion's paws, that witty lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause, but only for this worthy night durst proved to lose his crown, rather than fail his love. She comes, and straight therewith her shining twins do move their rays to me, who in her tedious absence lay benighted in cold woe. But now appears my day, the only light of joy, the only warmth of love. She comes with light and warmth, which like aurora prove of gentle force, so that mine eyes dare gladly play with such a rosy morn, whose beams most freshly gay scorch not, but only do dark chilling sprites remove. But lo, while I do speak, it groweth noon with me, perflamey glistening lights increase with time and place. My heart cries, ah, it burns, mine eyes now dazzled be. No wind, no shade can cool, what help then in my case? But with short breath, long looks, staid feet and walking head, pray that my sun go down with meeker beams to bed. Those looks, whose beams be joy, that ocean is delight, that face whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is, that presence which doth give dark hearts a living light, that grace which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss, that hand which without touch holds more than Atlas might, those lips which make deaths pay a mean price for a kiss, that skin, whose past praise hues scorns this poor term of white, those words which do sublime the quintessence of bliss, that voice which makes the soul plant himself in the ears, that conversation sweet where such high comforts be, as construed in true speech the name of heaven it bears, makes me in my best thought and quietest judgment see, that in no more but these I might be fully blessed. Yet, ah, my maiden muse doth blush to tell the rest. O how the pleasant airs of true love be infected by those vapours, which arise from out that noisome gulf, which gaping lies between the jaws of hellish jealousy, a monster, others harm, self-misery, beauty's plague, virtue's scourge, sucker of lies, who his own joy to his own hurt applies, and only cherished doth with injury, who since he hath by nature's special grace, so piercing paws as spoil when they embrace, so nimble feet as stir still though on thorns, so many eyes I seeking their own woe, so ample ears as never good news know, is it not evil that such a devil want horns? Sweet kiss, thy sweet's I feign would sweetly indict, which even of sweetness sweetest sweetener are, pleasingest consort where each sense holds apart, which coupling doves guides Venus's chariot right. Best charge and bravest retreat in Cupid's fight, a double key which opens to the heart, most rich when most his riches it impart, nest of young joy's schoolmaster of delight, teaching the mean at once to take and give, the friendly fray where blows doth wound and heal, the pretty death while each in other live, poor hope's first wealth hostage of promised wheel, breakfast of love, but lo, lo where she is, see sweet a praise, now pray we for a kiss. Sweet swelling lip, well mace thou swell in pride, since best wits think it wit thee to admire. Nature's praise, virtue's stall, Cupid's cold fire, whence words, not words but heavenly graces, slide. The new parnassus where the muses bide, sweetener of music, wisdom's beautifier, breather of life and fastener of desire, where beauty's blush and honour's grain is dyed. Thus much my heart compelled my mouth to say, but now spite of my heart my mouth will stay, loathing all lies, doubting this flattery is, and no spur can his resty race renew, without how far this praise is short of you, sweet lip, you teach my mouth with one sweet kiss. O kiss which dust those ruddy gems impart, or gems or fruits of newfound paradise, breathing all bliss and sweetening to the heart, teaching dumb lips and nobler exercise. O kiss which souls, even souls, together ties by links of love and only nature's art. How faint would I paint thee to all men's eyes, or of thy gifts at least shade out some part. But she forbids with blushing words, she says she builds her fame on higher seated praise. But my heart burns, I cannot silent be. Then since, dear life, you fain would have me peace, and I, mad with delight, want wit to cease, stop you my mouth with still, still kissing me. Nymph of the garden where all beauties be, beauties which do an excellency pass, his who till death looked in a watery glass, or hers whom naked the Trojan boy did see. Sweet garden nymph, which keeps the cherry tree, whose fruit doth far this perian tastes surpass. Most sweet fair, most fair sweet, do not alas from coming near those cherries banish me, for though full of desire, empty of wit, admitted late by your best-graced grace, I caught at one of them a hungry bit. Pardon that fault! Once more grant me the place, and I do swear, Ian, by the same delight, I will but kiss, I never more will bite. Good to brother Philip, I have borne you long. I was content you should in favour creep, for craftily you seemed your cut to keep, as though that fair soft hand did you great wrong. I bear with envy, yet I bear your song, when in her neck you did love ditties' peep. Nay, more fool I oft suffered you to sleep in Lily's nest, where love's self lies long. What doth high place ambitious thoughts augment? Is sauciness reward of courtesy? Cannot such grace your silly self-content, but you must needs with those lips billing be. And through those lips drink nectar from that tongue. Leave that, Sir Phipp, lest off your neck be rung. If Orpheus' voice had forced to breathe such music's love through pours of senseless trees, as it could make them move, if stone's good measure danced the Theban walls to build, to cadence of the tunes which Amphians lyred and yield, more cause a like effect at least wise bringeth, o stones, o trees, learning, hearing, Stella singeth. If love might sweeten so a boy of shepherd brood, to make a lizard dull to taste love's dainty food, if eagle fierce could so in Grecian made delight, as his light was her eyes, her death his endless night. O earth gave that love, heaven I trow, love refineth. O beasts, o birds, look love, lo, Stella shineth. The birds, beasts, stones, and trees feel this, and feeling love. And if the trees nor stones stir not the same to prove, nor beasts nor birds do come into this blessed gaze, know that small love is quick, and great love doth amaze. They are amazed, but you with reason armed. O eyes, o ears of men, how are you charmed? 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 blessed you, bear onward, blessed me to her, where I my heart safely as shall meet. My muse and I must you of duty greet with thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honoured 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. End of Part 3. By Sir Philip Sidney Part 4 Sonnets 85 to 90 I see the house, my heart thyself contain, beware full sails drown not thy tottering barge, lest joy, by nature apt sprites to enlarge, thee to thy rack beyond thy limits strain. Nor do like lords, whose weak confused brain not pointing to fit folks each under charge, while every office themselves will discharge, with doing all, leave nothing done but pain. But give apt servants their due place. Let eyes see beauty's total sum, summed in her face. Let ears hear speech, which wit to wonder ties. Let breath suck up those sweets, let arms embrace the globe of wheel, lips, loves, indentures make. Thou but of all the kingly tribute take. 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 could 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, cupids 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 hat 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 folks, take time while you may. 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 right. Right? But let me be. 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 right. Right? But let me first indict. Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear. Let be. Sweet alas! Why strive you thus? Concord better fiteth us. Leave to Mars the force of hands. Your power in your beauty stands. Take me to thee, and thee to me. No, no, no, no, my dear. Let be. Woe to me! And do you swear me to hate? But I forbear. Cursed be my destinies all, That brought me so high to fall. Soon with my death I will please thee. No, no, no, no, my dear. Let be. Alas! Whence come this change of looks? If I have changed desert, Let my own conscience be a still-felt plague To self-condemning me. Let woe grip on my heart. Shame, load mine eye. But if all faith, like spotless ermine, Lies safe in my soul, Which only doth to thee, As his sole object of felicity, With wings of love in air of wonder fly, O ease your hand, Treat not so hard your slave. Injustice pains come not till faults do call, Or if I needs sweet judge must torments have, Use something else to chasten me with all, Than those blessed eyes where all my hopes do dwell. No doom should make one's heaven become his hell. While favour fed my hope, Delight with hope was brought, Thought waited on delight, And speech did follow thought. Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glory. I thought all words were lost, That were not spent of thee. I thought each place was dark, But where thy lights would be, And all ears worse than deaf, That heard not out thy story. I said thou wert most fair, And so indeed thou art. I said thou wert most sweet, Sweet poison to my heart. I said my soul was thine. Oh, that I then had lied. I said thine eyes were stars, Thy breasts the milken way, Thy fingers cupids shafts, Thy voice the angels lay. And all I said so well, As no man it denied. But now that hope is lost, Unkindness kills delight. Yet thought and speech do live, Though metamorphosed quite. For rage now rules the reins, Which guided were by pleasure. I think now of thy faults, Who late thought of thy praise, That speech falls now to blame, Which did thy honour raise. The same key open can, Which can lock up a treasure. Thou then whom partial heavens conspired In one to frame, the proof of beauty's worth, Then heritrix of fame, The mansion's seat of bliss, And just excuse of lovers. See now those feathers plucked, Wherewith thou fluest most high, See what clouds of reproach Shall dark thy honour's sky, Whose own fault casts him down, Hardly high seat recovers. And oh, my muse, Though oft you lulled her in your lap, And then a heavenly child Gave her ambrosian pap, And to that brain of hers Your hideous gifts infused, Since she, disdaining me, Doth you in me disdain, Suffer not her to laugh, While both we suffer pain. Princes in subjects wronged Must deem themselves abused. Your client, poor myself, Shall stiller handle so. Revenge, revenge, my muse, Defiance trumpet blow, Threaten what may be done, Yet do more than you threaten. And my suit, granted, is. I feel my breast doth swell. Now, child, a lesson new, You shall begin to spell. Sweet babes must babies have, But shrewd girls must be beaten. Think now no more to hear Of warm, fine-odored snow, Nor blushing lilies, Nor pearls ruby-hidden row, Nor of that golden sea Where pearls and curls are broken. But of thy soul, so fraught With such ungratefulness, As where thou soon mightst help, Most faith doth most oppress. Ungrateful, who is called The worst of evils, is spoken. Yet worse than worst, I say thou art a thief. A thief? Now God forbid. A thief, and of worst thieves, The chief. Thieves steal for need, And steal but goods which pain recovers. But thou, rich in all joys, Doth rob my joys from me, Which cannot be restored by time nor industry. Of foes the spoil is evil, Far worse of constant lovers. Yet gentle English thieves do rob, But will not slay. Thou, English-murdering thief, Wilt have hearts for thy prey. The name of merger now By fair foreheads sitteth, And even while I do speak My death-wounds bleeding be. Which, I protest, Proceed from only cruel thee, Who may, and will not save, Murder in truth commiteth. But murder, private fault, Seems but a toy to thee. I lay then to thy charge Unjustest tyranny, If ruled by force without all claim A tyrant showeth. Lord my heart, who am not born thy slave, And which is worse, makes me Most guiltless torments have. A rightful prince by unright deeds, A tyrant groweth. Lo, you grow proud with this, For tyrants make folk bow. Of foul rebellion, then, I do appeach thee now. Rebel by nature's cause, Rebel by law of reason. Thou, sweetest subject, Wurt born in the realm of love, And yet against thy prince, Thy force dost daily prove. No virtue merits praise, Once touched with blot of treason. But valiant rebels often In fool's mouths purchase fame. I now then stain thy white With vagabonding shame. Both rebel to the sun, And vagrant from the mother, For wearing Venus badge Unto Diana's train Thou runaway didst flee. Who faileth one, if false, Though trusty to another. What, is not this enough? Nay, far worse cometh here. A witch, I say thou art, Though thou so fair appear. For I protest, my sight Nair thy face enjoys, But I in me am changed. I am alive and dead. My feet are turned to roots. My heart becomeeth led. No witchcraft is so evil, As which man's mind destroyeth. Yet witches may repent. Thou art far worse than they. Alas, that I am forced Such evil of thee to say, I say thou art a devil, Though clothed in angels shining. For thy face tempts my soul To leave the heaven for thee, And thy words of refuse Do pour even hell on me. Who tempt and tempted plague Are devils in true defining. You then, ungrateful thief, You murdering tyrant you, You rebel runaway to lord and lady untrue, You witch, you devil. Alas, you still of me beloved. You see what I can say. Mend yet your froward mind, And such skill in my muse You reconciled shall find, That all these cruel words Your praises shall be proved. O you that hear this voice, O you that see this face, Say whether of the choice Deserves the former place, Fear not to judge this bait, For it is void of hate. This side doth beauty take, For that doth music speak, Fit orders to make The strongest judgments weak, The bar to plead their right Is only true delight. Thus doth the voice and face These gentle lawyers wage, Like loving brother's case For father's heritage, That each, while each, Contends itself to other lands. For beauty beautifies With heavenly hue and grace, The heavenly harmonies, And in this faultless face The perfect beauties be a perfect harmony. Music more loftily swells In speeches nobly placed, Beauty as far excels In action aptly graced, A friend each party draws To countenance his cause. Love more affected seems To beauty's lovely light, And wonder more steams Music's wondrous might, But both to both so bent, As both in both are spent. Music doth witness call the ear His truth to try, beauty brings To the hall the judgment of the eye, Both in their objects such As no exceptions touch. The common sense, Which might be arbiter of this, To be forsooth upright To both sides partial is, He lays on this chief praise. Chief praise on that he lays. The reason, Princess High, Whose throne is in the mind, Which music can in sky And hidden beauties find, Say whether thou wilt crown With limitless renown. Whose senses in so evil 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 cloyed with wit, As with sententious lips to set A title vain on it. O let them hear these sacred tunes, And learn in wondrous schools To be in things past bounds of wit, Fools, if they be not fools. Who have so ledden as, As not to see sweet beauty show, Or seeing have so wooden wits As not that worth to know? Or knowing have so muddy minds As not to be in love? Or loving have so frothy thoughts As easily thence to move? O let them see these heavenly beams, And in fair letters read a lesson fit, Both sight and skill, Love and firm love to breed. Here then, but then with wonder here. 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. In a grove most rich of shade, Where birds wanton music made, May then young, his pied weeds showing, New perfumed with flowers growing, Astrophil with Stella sweet, Did for mutual comfort meet, Both within themselves oppressed, But each in the other blessed. Him great harms had taught much care, Her fair neck a foul yoke bear, But her sight his cares did vanish, In his sight her yoke did vanish. Wept they did, but now betwixt Size of woe were glad sights mixed, With arms crossed yet testifying Restless rest and living dying. Their ears hungry of each word, Which the dear tongue would afford, But their tongues restrained from walking, Till their hearts had ended talking. But when their tongues could not speak, Love itself did silence break, Love did set his lips asunder, Thus to speak in love and wonder. Stella, sovereign of my joy, Fair triumphor of annoy, Stella, star of heavenly fire, Stella, lodestone of desire. Stella, whose voice when it speaks, Senses all asunder breaks. Stella, whose voice when it singeth, Angels to acquaintance bringeth. Stella, in whose body is writ Each character of bliss, Whose face all, all beauty passeth, Save thy mind, which yet surpasseth. Grant, O grant, But speech alas fails me, Fearing on to pass. Grant, O me, what am I saying? But no fault there is in praying. Grant, O dear, on knees I pray, Knees on ground he did then stay. That not I, but since I love you, Time and place for me may move you. Never season was more fit, Never room more apt for it, Smiling air allows my reason, These birds sing, now use the season. This small wind which so sweet is, See how it the leaves doth kiss, Each tree in his best attiring, Sense of love to love inspiring. Love makes earth the water-drink, Love to earth makes water sink, And if dumb things be so witty, Shall a heavenly grace want pity. There his hands in their speech, Fane would have made tongues language plain, But her hands, his hands repelling, Gave repulse all grace excelling. Then she spake. Her speech was such as not ear but heart did touch, While such wise she loved an eyed, As yet love she signified. Astrophil said she, My love, cease in these effects to prove, Now be still, yet still believe me, Thy grief more than death would grieve me. If that any thought in me can taste comfort but of thee, Let me, fed with hellish anguish, Joyless, hopeless, endless languish. If those eyes you praised, Be half so dear as you to me, Let me home return, Stark-blinded of those eyes, And blinder-minded. If to secret of my heart I do any wish in part, Where thou art not foremost placed, Be both wish and eye defaced. If more may be said, I say, All my bliss in thee I lay. If thou love, My love content thee, For all love, all faith is meant thee. Trust me, While I thee deny, In myself the smart I try, Tyrant honour doth thus use thee, Stella's self might not refuse thee. Therefore, dear, This no more move, Lest, though I leave not thy love, Which too deep in me is framed, I should blush when thou art named. Therewithal away she went, Leaving him so passion-rent, With what she had done and spoken, That therewith my song is broken. Go, my flock, Go get you hence, Seek a better place of feeding, Where you may have some defence From the storms in my breast-breeding, And showers from my eyes proceeding. Leave a wretch, In whom all woe can abide To keep no measure, Merry flock, such one forgo, Unto whom mirth is displeasure, Only rich in mischief's treasure. Yet alas, before you go, Hear your woeful master's story, Which to stones I else would show, Sorrow only then hath glory, When tis excellently sorry. Stella, fiercest shepherdess, Fiercest but yet fairest ever. Stella, whom o heavens do bless, Though against me she perceiver, Though I bliss inherit never. Stella hath refused me. Stella, whom more love hath proved In this cate of heart to be, Than can in good use be moved Toward Lampkin's best beloved. Stella hath refused me. Astrophil, that so well served In this pleasant spring must see, While in pride flowers be preserved, Himself only winter starved. Why alas, doth she then swear That she loveth me so dearly, Seeing me so long to bear Coals of love that burn so clearly, And yet leave me helpless merely. Is that love? Forsooth, I trove, If I saw my good dog grieved, And help for him did know, My love should not be believed, But he were by me relieved. No, she hates me, well away, Faining love somewhat to please me, For she knows if she display All her hate death soon would seize me, And of hideous torments ease me. Than adieu, dear flock, adieu. But alas, if in your straying Heavenly Stella meet with you, Tell her in your piteous blaying Her poor slaves unjust decaying. When I was forced from Stella, Ever dear Stella, Food of my thoughts, heart of my heart, Stella whose eyes make all my tempests clear, By iron laws of duty to depart. Alas, I found that she with me did smart, I saw that tears did in her eyes appear, I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part, And her sad words my saddest sense did hear. For me, I wept to see pearls scattered so, I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe. Yet swam in joy such love in her was seen. Thus, while the fact most bitter was to me, And nothing than the cause more sweet could be, I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been. Out, traitor, absence, Darest thou counsel me from my dear Captain S to run away, Because in brave array here marched she That to win me oft shows a present pay. Is faith so weak? Or is such force in thee? When sun is hid, can stars such beams display? Cannot heaven's food, once felt, Keep stomachs free from base desire on earthly cates to pray? Touch, absence, While thy mists eclipse that light, My orphan sense flies to the inward sight Where memory sets forth the beams of love, That where before heart loved and eyes did see? In heart both sight and love Now coupled be. United powers make each the stronger prove. Now that of absence the most irksome night With darkest shade doth overcome my day, Since Stella's eyes won't to give me my day, Leaving my hemisphere leave me in night. Each day seems long, And longs for longs stayed night. The night as tedious woes the approach of day, Tired with the dusty toils of busy day, Languished with horrors of the silent night, Suffering the evils both of the day and night, While no night is more dark than is my day, Nor no day hath less quiet than my night. With such bad mixture of my night and day, That living thus in blackest winter night, I feel the flames of hottest summer day. Stella, Think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live, but thee. Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history. If thou praise not, all other praise is shame, Nor so ambitious am I as to frame And nest for praise in my young laurel tree. In truth, I swear, I wish not there should be graved in mine epitaph a poet's name. Knee, if I would, could I just title make, That any lodge to me thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others' wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth indict, And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. End of Part 4