Sonnet 21: Your Words, My Friend

By Sir Philip Sidney

Your words, my friend, (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?