Philip Sidney (1554 – 1586)
English courtier, soldier, poet and romancer.
Page 1 of 1
The historian…loaden with old mouse-eaten records, authorizing himself (for the most part) upon other histories, whose greatest authorities are built upon the notable foundation of hearsay; having much ado to accord differing writers and to pick truth out of partiality; better acquainted with a thousand years ago than with the present age, and yet better knowing how this world goeth than how his own wit runneth; curious for antiquities and inquisitive of novelties; a wonder to young folks and a tyrant in table talk, denieth, in a great chafe, that any man for teaching of virtue, and virtuous actions is comparable to him.
Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge.
High-erected thoughts seated in the heart of courtesy.
Have I caught my heav'nly jewel.
There have been many most excellent poets that never versified, and now swarm many versifiers that need never answer to the name of poets.
With a tale forsooth he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner.
A fair woman shall not only command without authority but persuade without speaking.
I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet.
That sweet enemy, France.
....But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."
Open suspecting others comes of secret condemning themselves.
They are never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts.
And thou my minde aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust.
Certainly, I must confess my own barbarousness, I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other given.
Poetry, a speaking picture... to teach and delight
Come sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
Who shoots at the mid-day sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is he shall shoot higher than who aims but at a bush.
Page 1 of 1