But eyes these beauties see not, Nor sense that grace descries; Yet eyes deprived be not From sight of her fair eyes-- Which, as of inward glory They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry, Which die not in that weal. But who hath fancies pleased With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Nature's sweetest light! Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 90. Voices at the Window Who is it that, this dark night, Underneath my window plaineth? It is one who from thy sight Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth Every other vulgar light. Why, alas, and are you he? Be not yet those fancies changeed? Dear, when you find change in me, Though from me you be estranged, Let my change to ruin be. Well, in absence this will die: Leave to see, and leave to wonder. Absence sure will help, if I Can learn how myself to sunder From what in my heart doth lie. But time will these thoughts remove; Time doth work what no man knoweth. Time doth as the subject prove: With time still the affection groweth In the faithful turtle-dove. What if you new beauties see? Will not they stir new affection? I will think they pictures be (Image-like, of saints' perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee. But your reason's purest light Bids you leave such minds to nourish. Dear, do reason no such spite! Never doth thy beauty flourish More than in my reason's sight. leave] cease. Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 91. 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. Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 92. The Highway