Astrophil and Stella

Sonnet 22

Your words, my friend, (right healthful caustics), blame 
   My young mind marred, whom love doth windlass 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 tame 
   Such coltish years; that to my birth I owe 
   Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe, 
Great expectation, 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 aught so fair as Stella is?  
Sir Philip Sidney

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