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 gyres; 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?

Source:
Sir Philip Sidney: The Major Works.
Katherine Duncan-Jones, ed.
Oxford: University Press, 2002. 161.

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