SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
But your reason's purest hght
Bids you have such minds to nourish.
Dear, do reason no such spite' Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason's sight.
JOT Philomela
THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rented sense a perfect waking, While Luc-bare Earth, pioud^of new clothing, springcth Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes cxprcsscth What grief her breast opprebscth, For Tercus" force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness That here i* Duster can e of plaint ful sadness '
Thine eaith now springs, mine jadeth^ Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. Alas' she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tercus' love, on her by strong hand wroken; W T hcrcin the suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike complains her will was broken But I, who, daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness That here is Duster cause of flaintjul sadness -f
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth , Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
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