Astrophil and Stella: 62nd Sonnet

by Philip Sidney

Late tyr’d with woe, even ready for to pine
With rage of love, I call my Love unkinde.
Shee in whose eyes, love though unfelt doth shine,
Sweetely saide, I true love in her should finde.
I joyed, but straight thus watred was my wine:
That love she did, but with a love not blinde.
Which would not let me, whome she lov’d decline.
From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.
And therefore her loves Authoritie;
Wild me those Tempests of vaine love to flee:
And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.
Alas if this the onely mettall be,
Of love newe coyn’d to help my beggery:
Deere, love me not, that you may love me more.

Monadnock Valley Press > Sidney