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Astrophil and Stella

A Cycle of Sonnets and Songs by

Sir Philip Sidney

Part I (1-30) | II (31-60) | III (61-84) | IV (85-90) | V (91-108)

Loving in truth, and fain in verse 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 win, 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 sun-burn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,: Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,; And others' feet still seem'd 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 dribbed 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 lov'd, but straight did not what Love decreed.; At length to love's decrees I, forc'd, 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 mask'd, their fancies may be told:; Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,; Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.
Or else let them in statelier glory shine,: Ennobling new found tropes with problems old,; Or with strange similes enrich each line,; Of herbs or beasts with Inde or Afric' hold.
For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know:: Phrases and problems from my reach do 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 set'st a bate between my soul and wit.; If vain love have my simple soul oppress'd,; Leave what thou likest 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 confess'd,; 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 th'effect 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 shalt be in love.

It is most true, that eyes are form'd to serve: The inward light; and that the heavenly part; Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve,; Rebles to Nature, strive for their own smart.
It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart,: An image is, which for ourselves we carve:; And, fools, adore in temple of hour heart,; Till that good God make Church and churchman starve.
True, that ture 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 Stella love.

Some lovers speak when they their Muses entertain,: Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires:; Of force of heav'nly 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 oft in rural vein.
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest style affords,: While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his words:; His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth 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 Stella love.

When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,: In color black why wrapp'd she beams so bright?; Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,; Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd 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 beauties flow?
Both so and thus, she minding Love shoud be: Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed,; To honor all their deaths, who for her bleed.

Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place,: Forc'd by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart; Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart,; And pleas'd with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race.
But finding these north climes do coldly him embrace,: Not used to frozen clips, he strave to find some part; Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art:; At length he perch'd himself in Stella's joyful face,
Whose fair skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on snow,: Deceiv'd 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 firebrands he did lay,; He burnt un'wares his wings, and cannot fly away.

Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face,: Prepar'd 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 porphir is, which lock of pearl makes sure,; Whose porches rich (which name of cheeks endure); Marble mix'd red and white do interlace.
The windows now through which this heav'nly 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's self from Beauty's mine did draw:; Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw.

Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still: Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me:; I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill,; Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside to see:: Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil to till?; Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be:; Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will.
But thou wouldst 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 strake thee with Stella's rays,: Reason thou kneel'dst, and offeredst straight to prove; By reason good, good reason her to love.

In truth, oh Love, with what a boyish kind: Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways:; That when the heav'n to thee his best displays,; Yet of that best thou leav'st 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 find picture stays,; But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind:
So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet: Stella, thou straight lookst babies in her eyes,; In her cheek's pit thou didst thy pitfall set:
And in her breast bopeep or couching lies,: Playing and shining in each outward part:; But, fool, seekst not to get into her heart.

Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stella's eyes,: That from her locks, thy day-nets, noe scapes free,; That those lips swell, so full of thee they be,; That her sweet breath makes oft 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 ere 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 judge 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 a 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 roses gules are borne in silver field.
Phoebus drew wide the curtains of the skies: To blaze these last, and sware devoutly then,; The first, thus match'd, were scantly gentlemen.

Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,: Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire,; Than 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-form'd soul even in the mire; Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end?
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,: Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,; Ready of wit and fearing nought but shame:
If that be sin which in fix'd hearts doth breed: A loathing of all loose unchastity,; Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.

You that do search for every purling spring,: Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,; And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows; Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary's method bring: Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;; You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes,; With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing,
You take wrong ways: those far-fet helps be such: As do bewray a want of inward touch:; And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.
But if (both for your love and skill) your name: You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,; Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

In nature apt to like when I did see: Beauties, which were of many carats 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 lion played,: Mine eyes (shall I say curst or blest?) beheld; Stella; now she is nam'd, need more be said?
In her sight I a lesson new have spell'd,: I now hav learn'd Love right, and learn'd 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 throughly more; To keep the pace of their first loving state.
The boy refus'd for fear of Mars's hate,: Who threaten'd stripes, if he his wrath did prove:; But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,; Brake bow, brake shafts, while Cupid weeping sate:
Till that his grandame Nature pityijng it: Of stella's brows make him two better bows,; And in her eyes of arrows infinite.
Oh how for joy he leaps, oh 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 shent,: When into Reason's audit I do go:; And by just counts myself a bankrupt know; Of all the goods, which heav'n 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 spend.
My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toys,: My wit doth strive those passions to defend,; Which for reward spoil it with vain annoys.
I see my course to lose myself doth bend:: I see and yet no greater sorrow take,; Than that I lose no more for Stella's sake.

On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent,: That see my wrack, 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 Stella'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 in a ditch doth fall?
Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth,: And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit:; "Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit."

Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound; fly!: See there that boy, that murthering 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 in so secret stay,; As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye:; There himself with his shot he close doth lay.
Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,: And stayed pleas'd with the prospect of the place,; While that black hue from me the bad guest hid:
But straight I saw motions of lightning grace,: And then descried the glist'ring of his dart:; But ere I could fly hence, it pierc'd my heart.

Your words, my firend, (right healthful caustics) blame: My young mind marr'd, whom Love doth windlass so,; That mine own writings like bad servants show; My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;
That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame: Such doltish gyres; that to my birth I owe; Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,; Great Expectation, were a train 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 learning's spade." Now tell me this,; Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?

In highest way of heav'n 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 prepar'd with fan's well-shading grace; From that foe's wounds their tender skins to hide.
Stella alone with face unarmed march'd.: Either to do like him which open shone,; Or careless of the wealth because her own:
Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parch'd,: Her daintiest bare went free; the cause was this,; The Sun, which others burn'd, did her but kiss.

The curious wits seeing dull pensiveness: Bewray 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 ambition's rage,: Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry place,; Holds my young brain cativ'd in golden cage.
Oh Fools, or over-wise, alas the race: Of all my thoughts hath 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 blist more wretched grow.
Yet to those fools heav'n 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 danger's show.
But that rich fool who by blind Fortune's lot: The richest gem of love and life enjoys,; And can with foul abuse such beauties blot;
Let him, depriv'd of sweet but unfelt joys,: (Exil'd for aye from those high treasures, which; He knows not) grow in only folly rich.

The wisest scholar of the wight most wise: By Phoebus' doom, with sugar'd 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 descries,: Whiles he each thing in sense's balance weighs,; 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 her did see,: Virtue's great beauty in that face I prove,; And find th'effect, 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 unidle 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 fore-judge 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 rumor flies,: That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie; So in my swelling breast that only I; Fawn on myself, and others do despise:
Yet pride I think doth not my soul possess,: Which looks too oft in his unflatt'ring glass:; But one worse fault, ambition, I confess,
That makes me oft my best friends overpass,: Unseen, unheard, while though to highest place; Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.

You that with allegory's 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 count it shame.
I beg no subject to use eloquence,: Nor in hid ways do 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, neighbor'd 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 armor brave,: And I, but for bacuse my prospect lies; Upon that coast, am giv'n up for a slave.

Whether the Turkish new moon minded be: To fill his horns this year on Christian coast;; How Poles' right king means, with leave of host,; To warm with ill-made fire cold 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 welt'ring yet:
These questions busy wits to me do frame.: I, cumber'd with good manners, answer do,; But know not how, for still I think of you.

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