Sleep (Sir Philip Sidney Poems)
Come Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's ...
Come Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's ...
Virtue, alas, now let me take some rest. Thou set'st a bate between my soul and wit. If vain love ...
Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's ...
With what sharp checks I in myself am shent, When into Reason's audit I do go: And by just counts ...
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may ...
No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; Oh, give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune ...
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may ...
I might!--unhappy word--O me, I might, And then would not, or could not, see my bliss; Till now wrapt in ...
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may ...
Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's ...
You that do search for every purling spring, Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, And every flower, not ...
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may ...
Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me: I rather ...
No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; Oh, give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune ...
Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's ...
Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stella's eyes, That from her locks, thy day-nets, noe scapes free, That those lips swell, ...
On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent, That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same? When most I ...
You that do search for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, And every flower, not ...
I might!--unhappy word--O me, I might, And then would not, or could not, see my bliss; Till now wrapt in ...
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What! May ...
Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire, Than did on him ...
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