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.
On Cupid's bow, how are my heart-strings 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.
Sidney in his devouring affection for this his only love, would have lost himself altogether, as this impassioned appeal shows.
No more! my Dear! no more these counsels try!
O give my passions leave to run their race!
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace!
Let folk o'ercharged with brain, against me cry!
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye!
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace!
Let all the earth in 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 CÆSAR'S bleeding fame;
Nor ought do 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.
See also the EIGHTH SONG.
But STELLA, loving him to distraction, was as firm as a rock. She saved SIDNEY from himself; at the same time declaring her affection for him.
Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine
With rage of love, I called my love "unkind!"
She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine
Sweetly said, "That I, true love in her should find."
