SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

$3. His Lady's Cruelty

VV7ITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb' st the skies!

^ How silently, and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case: I read it in thy looks ; thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ?

Do they call * virtue ' there ungratefulness ?

94. Sleep

f~^ OME, Sleep ; O Sleep ! the certain knot of pcace^ ^^ The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw :

make in me those civil wars to cease ;

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,

A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,

A rosy garland and a weary head ;

And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shah in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

94. prease] press.

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