Sonnet 23: The Curious Wits
The
curious
wits
seeing
dull
pensiveness
Bewray
itself
in
my
long
settled
eyes,
Whence
those
same
fumes
of
melancholy
rise,
With
idle
pains,
and
missing
aim,
do
guess.
Some
that
know
how
my
spring
I
did
address,
Deem
that
my
Muse
some
fruit
of
knowledge
plies:
Others,
because
the
Prince
my
service
tries,
Think
that
I
think
state
errors
to
redress.
But
harder
judges
judge
ambition's
rage,
Scourge
of
itself,
still
climbing
slipp'ry
place,
Holds
my
young
brain
cativ'd
in
golden
cage.
Oh
Fools,
or
over-wise,
alas
the
race
Of
all
my
thoughts
hath
neither
stop
nor
start,
But
only
Stella's
eyes
and
Stella's
heart.