Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history:
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for praise in my young laurel tree:
In truth I swear, I wish not there should be
Grav'd in mine epitaph a poet's name:
Ne if I would, could I just title make,
That any laud to me thereof should grow,
Without my plumes from others' wings I take.
For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
Since all my words thy beauty doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.
More verses by Sir Philip Sidney
- Sonnet 83: Good, Brother Philip
- Sonnet 85: I See The House
- Sonnet Xiv: Alas, Have I Not
- Sonnet Xiii: Phoebus Was Judge
- Sonnet Xxix: Like Some Weak Lords