38 ENGLISH SONNETS. 



The following is from Sir Philip Sydney. It is on 



SLEEP. 



COME, Sleep! O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, 



The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 



The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 



Th* indifferent judge between the high and low ; 

 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease * 



Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw ; 



O, make in me those civil wars to cease ; 



I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

 Take thou of me sweet pillows, sweetest bed ; 



A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light ; 



A rosy garland, and a weary head. 

 And if these things, as being thine by right, 



Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 



Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 



Edmund Spencer has a beautiful sonnet on 

 TRUE BEAUTY. 



MEN call you fair, and you do credit it, 



For that yourself you daily such do see ; 



But the true fair, that is the gentle wit 



And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me, 

 For all the rest, however fair it be, 



Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue ; 



But only that is permanent and free 



From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. 

 That is true beauty, that doth argue you 



To be divine, and born of heavenly seed ; 



Deriv'd from that fair spirit from whom all true 

 And perfect beauty did at first proceed. 



He only fair, and what he fair hath made ; 



All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade. 



Next comes our immortal Bard of Avon. We select his sonnet on 

 RETROSPECTION. 



WEARY with toil, I haste me to my bed, 



The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; 



But then begins a journey in my head, 



To work my mind, when body's work 's expired ; 

 7or then my thoughts (from far where I abide) 



Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, 



And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide, 



Looking on darkness which the blind do see, 

 Save that my soul's imaginary sight 



Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, 



Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, 

 Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. 



Lo ! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, 



For thee, and for myself, no quiet find, 



William Drummond, of Hawlhornden, has a beautiful one 

 TO SLEEP. 



CARK-CHARMING Sleep, son of the sable night, 

 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 

 Destroy my languish ere the day be light, 

 With dark forgetting of my care's return ; 



* Press. 



