Sir Philip Sidney

(1554 - 1586 / Kent / England)

Sonnet 62: Late, Tir'D With Woe - Poem by Sir Philip Sidney

Late tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine,
With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind;
She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine,
Sweet said that I true love in her should find.

I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine,
That love she did, but lov'd a Love not blind,
Which would not let me, whem she lov'd, decline
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:

And therefore by her love's authority,
Will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee,
And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore.

Alas, if this the only metal be
Of Love, new-coin'd to help my beggary,
Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.

Comments about Sonnet 62: Late, Tir'D With Woe by Sir Philip Sidney

There is no comment submitted by members..

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Monday, April 12, 2010

[Report Error]