Sir Philip Sidney(1554–1586)
Sonnet 47
What, have I thus betrayed my liberty
Can those black beams such burning marks8 engrave
In my free side or am I born a slave,
Whose neck becomes 0 such yoke of tyrannybefits
Or want I sense to feel my misery
Or sprite, disdain of such disdain to havespirit
Who for long faith, though daily help I crave,
May get no alms but scorn of beggary.
Virtue, awake! Beauty but beauty is;
I may, I must, I can, I will, I do
Leave following that which it is gain to miss.
Let her go. Soft, but here she comes. Go to,
Unkind, I love you not! O me, that eye
Doth make my heart give to my tongue the lie!