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Philip Sidney - Astrophel And Stella-Fifth Song
Work rating: Low

While favor fed my hope, delight with hope was brought, 
Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought; 
Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glory: 
I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of thee; 
I thought each place was dark but where thy lights would be, 
And all ears worse than deaf, that heard not out thy story. 

I said thou wert most fair, and so indeed thou art; 
I said thou wert most sweet, sweet poison to my heart; 
I said my soul was thine (oh that I then had lied!) 
I said thine eyes were stars, thy breasts the milk`n way; 
Thy fingers Cupid`s shafts, thy voice the angels` lay: 
And all I said so well, as no man it denied. 

But now that hope is lost, unkindness kills delight; 
Yet thought and speech do live, though metamorphos`d quite: 
For Rage now rules the reins, which guided were by Pleasure. 
I think now of thy faults, who late thought of thy praise; 
That speech falls now to blame, which did thy honor raise; 
The same key open can, which can lock up a treasure. 

Thou then whom partial heavens conspir`d in one to frame, 
The proof of Beauty`s worth, th`inheritrix of fame, 
The mansion seat of bliss, and just excuse of lovers; 
See now those feathers pluck`d, wherewith thou flewst most high: 
See what clouds of reproach shall dark thy honor`s sky. 
Whose own fault casts him down, hardly hhigh seat recovers. 

And oh, my Muse, though oft you lull`d her in your lap, 
And then a heav`nly child gave her ambrosian pap, 
And to that brain of hers your hidd`nest gifts infus`d, 
Since she, disdaining me, doth you in me disdain, 
Suffer not her to laugh, while both we suffer pain: 
Princes in subjects wrong`d, must deem themselves abus`d. 

Your client poor my self, shall Stella handle so? 
Revenge, revenge, my Muse! Defiance` trumpet blow: 
Threat`n what may be done, yet do more than you threat`n. 
An, my suit granted is; I feel my breast doth swell. 
Now child, a lesson new you shall begin to spell: 
Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girls must be beaten. 

Think now no more to hear of warm fine-odor`d snow, 
Nor blushing lilies, nor pearls` ruby-hidden row, 
Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curls are broken: 
But of thy soul, so fraught with such ungratefulness, 
As where thou soon mightst help, most faith dost most oppress, 
Ungrateful who is call`d, the worst of evils is spoken. 

Yet worse than worst, I say thou art a thief. A thief? 
Now God forbid. A thief, and of worst thieves the chief: 
Thieves steal for need, and steal but goods, which pain recovers, 
But thou rich in all joys, dost rob my joys from me, 
Which cannot be restor`d by time nor industry: 
Of foes the spoil is evil, far worse of constant lovers. 

Yet gentle English thieves do rob, but will not slay; 
Thou English murd`ring thief, wilt have hearts for thy prey: 
The name of murd`rer now on thy fair forehead sitteth: 
And ev`n while I do speak, my death wounds bleeding be, 
Which (I protest) proceed from only cruel thee: 
Who may and will not save, murder in truth committeth. 

But murder, private fault, seems but a toy to thee. 
I lay then to thy charge unjustest tyranny, 
If rule by force without all claim a tyrant showeth; 
For thou dost lord my heart, who am not born thy slave, 
And, which is worse, makes me, most guiltless, torments have; 
A rightful prince by unright deeds a tyrant groweth. 

Lo, you grow proud with this, for tyrants make folk bow: 
Of foul rebellion then I do appeach thee now; 
Rebel by Nature`s law, rebel by law of reason, 
Thou, sweetest subject, wert born in the realm of Love, 
And yet against thy prince thy force dost daily prove: 
No virtue merits praise, once touch`d with blot of treason. 

But valiant rebels oft in fools` mouths purchase fame: 
I now then stain thy white with vagabonding shame, 
Both rebel to the son, and vagrant from the mother; 
For wearing Venus` badge in every part of thee, 
Unot Diana`s train thou runaway didst flee: 
Who faileth one, if false, though trusty to another. 

What, is not this enough? Nay, far worse cometh here; 
A witch I say thou art, though thou so fair appear; 
For I protest, my sight ne`er thy face enjoyeth, 
Bit I in me am chang`d, I am alive and dead: 
My feet are turn`d to roots; my heart becometh lead; 
No witchcraft is so evil, as which man`s mind destroyeth. 

Yet witches may repent, thou art far worse than they. 
Alas, that I am forc`d such evil of thee to say, 
I say thou art a devil, though cloth`d in angel`s shining: 
For thy face tempts my soul to leave the heav`n for thee, 
And thy words of refuse, do pour ev`n hell on me: 
Who tempt, and tempted plague, are devils in true defining. 

You then, ungrateful thief, you murd`ring tyrant you, 
You rebel runaway, to lord and lady untrue, 
You witch, you devil (alas) you still of me belov`d, 
You see what I can say; mend yet your froward mind, 
And such skill in my Muse you reconcil`d shall find, 
That all these cruel words your praises shall be prov`d.
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