Astrophil and Stella

Sonnet 59

Dear, why make you more of a dog then me? 
   If he do love, I burn, I burn in love; 
   If he wait well, I never thence would move; 
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be; 
Little he is, so little worth is he; 
   He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove; 
   Bidden, perhaps he fetched thee a glove, 
But I, unbid, fetch even my soul to thee. 
   Yet, while I languish, him that bosom clips, 
That lap doth lap, nay lets, in spite of spite, 
This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips. 
Alas, if you grant only such delight 
   To witless things, then love, I hope (since wit 
   Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.  
Sir Philip Sidney

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