Sir Philip Sidney(1554–1586)

Sonnet 14

Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,

Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe 0 doth tirevulture I tear

Than did on him who first stale 0 down the fire,stole

While Love2 on me doth all his quiver spend,

But with your rhubarb 0 words you must contendcynical

To grieve me worse, in saying that Desire

Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire

Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end

If that be sin which doth the manners frame,3

Well stayed 0 with truth in word and faith of deed,supported

Ready of wit, and fearing naught but shame;

If that be sin which in fixed hearts doth breed

A loathing of all loose unchastity,

Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.