Poems by Sir Philip Sidney

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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.

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 heav'nly 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 languish'd grace

To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.