Sir Philip Sidney(1554–1586)
Sonnet 21
Your words my friend (right healthful caustics5) blame
My young mind marred, whom Love doth windlass 0 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 tameunless
Such coltish gyres,6 that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, least 0 else that friendly foe,lest
Great expectation,7 wear 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 ought 0 so fair as Stella isanything