Amazing Nature Photos

Best Famous Sir Philip Sidney Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sir Philip Sidney poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sir Philip Sidney poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sir Philip Sidney poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sir philip sidney poems.

Search for the best famous Sir Philip Sidney poems, articles about Sir Philip Sidney poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Sir Philip Sidney poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XIX: On Cupids Bow

 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.
"
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

My True Love Hath My Heart And I Have His

 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driv'n.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides; He loves my heart, for once it was his own; I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight: My heart was wounded with his wounded heart; For as from me, on him his hurt did light, So still me thought in me his hurt did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss: My true love hath my heart and I have his.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Leave Me O Love Which Reachest But to Dust

 Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust, 
And thou my mind aspire to higher things: 
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust: 
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might, To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedoms be: Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light, That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold, let that light be thy guide, In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how evil becometh him to slide, Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell world, thy uttermost I see, Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Come Sleep O Sleep! The Certain Knot Of Peace

 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,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw!
O make in me those civil wars to cease!— 
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, A rosy garland, and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Thou Blind Mans Mark

 Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self chosen snare, 
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought, 
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care, 
Thou web of will,whose end is never wrought.
Desire, desire I have too dearly bought, With price of mangled mind thy worthless ware, Too long, too long asleep thou hast me brought, Who should my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought, In vain thou madest me to vain things aspire, In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire.
For virtue hath this better lesson taught, Within myself to seek my only hire: Desiring nought but how to kill desire.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XLI: Having This Day My Horse

 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Philomela

 The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making,
And, mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
But I, who, daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Astrophel and Stella VII: WhenNature Made her Chief Work

 When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In colour black why wrapt 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 these brave gleams did disguise,
They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight?
Or would she her miraculous power show,
That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary,
She even in black doth make all beauties flow?
Both so, and thus,--she, minding Love should be
Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed
To honour all their deaths who for her bleed.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Ring Out Your Bells

 Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;
For Love is dead--
All love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain;
Worth, as nought worth, rejected,
And Faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death-bed, peacock's folly; His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy; His sole exec'tor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Let dirge be sung and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart, Which epitaph containeth, "Her eyes were once his dart.
" From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us! Alas, I lie, rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead; Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a franzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us!
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Astrophel and Stella: LXXI

 Who will in fairest book of nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd 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 fly; That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be perfection's heir Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move, Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love, As fast thy virtue bends that love to good: But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet III: With how sad steps

 With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whoom that love doth possess? Do they call 'virtue' there - ungratefulness?
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sleep

 Come Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind of 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.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

The Bargain

 MY true love hath my heart, and I have his, 
 By just exchange one for another given: 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, 
 There never was a better bargain driven: 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Astrophel and Stella: XLI

 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet V: It Is Most True

 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.