Late tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine,
With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind;
She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine,
Sweet said that I true love in her should find.
I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine,
That love she did, but lov'd a Love not blind,
Which would not let me, whem she lov'd, decline
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:
And therefore by her love's authority,
Will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee,
And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore.
Alas, if this the only metal be
Of Love, new-coin'd to help my beggary,
Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.
Sonnet 62: Late, Tir'd With Woe
Sir Philip Sidney
(1)
Poem topics: I love you, birth, joy, water, dear, shore, sweet, ready, fast, mind, straight, true, blind, shine, authority, I miss you, love, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Submit Spanish Translation
Submit German Translation
Submit French Translation
Write your comment about Sonnet 62: Late, Tir'd With Woe poem by Sir Philip Sidney
Best Poems of Sir Philip Sidney