Philomela

The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,

While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;

And mournfully bewailing,

Her throat in tunes expresseth

What grief her breast oppresseth,

For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!

Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish

But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;

Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,

Full womanlike complains her will was broken

But I, who, daily craving,

Cannot have to content me,

Have more cause to lament me,

Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!

Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,

While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;

And mournfully bewailing,

Her throat in tunes expresseth

What grief her breast oppresseth,

For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!

Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish

But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;

Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,

Full womanlike complains her will was broken

But I, who, daily craving,

Cannot have to content me,

Have more cause to lament me,

Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!

Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
 Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
 Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
     And mournfully bewailing,
     Her throat in tunes expresseth
     What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
   O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
   That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
       Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
   Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish
 But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
 Full womanlike complains her will was broken
     But I, who, daily craving,
     Cannot have to content me,
     Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness
   That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
       Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
   Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

Philp Sidney

Sir Philip Sidney (born November 30, 1554, Penshurst, Kent, England—died October 17, 1586, Arnhem, Netherlands) Elizabethan courtier, statesman, soldier, poet, and patron of scholars and poets, considered the ideal gentleman of his day. After Shakespeare’s sonnets, Sidney’s Astrophel and Stella is considered the finest Elizabethan sonnet cycle. His The Defence of Poesie introduced the critical ideas of Renaissance theorists to England. He was buried at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London on February 16, 1587, with an elaborate funeral of a type usually reserved for great noblemen. The Universities of Oxford and Cambridge and scholars throughout Europe issued memorial volumes in his honour, while almost every English poet composed verses in his praise. He won this adulation even though he had accomplished no action of consequence; it would be possible to write a history of Elizabethan political and military affairs without so much as mentioning his name. It is not what he did but what he was that made him so widely admired: the embodiment of the Elizabethan ideal of gentlemanly virtue.

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Sonnet 1: Loving In Truth Sonnet 13: Phoebus Was Judge Sonnet 20: Fly, Fly, My Friends Sonnet 24: Rich Fools There Be Sonnet 101: Stella Is Sick

Philomela

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