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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