SilenceSIlence augmenteth grief, writing
encreaseth rage,
Stald are my thoughts, which lou’dlov’d, &and lost, the wonder of our age,
Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,
Enrag’de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.
Hard harted mindes relent, and rigors teares abound,
And enuieenvie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found,
Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slaine her knight,
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is
the worlds delight.
Place pensiuepensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride,
Time crieth out, my ebbe is come: his life was my spring tide,
Fame mournes in that she lost, the ground of her reports,
Ech liuingliving wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts.
He was (wo worth that word) to ech well thinking minde,
A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue euerever shinde,
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.
He onely like himselfe, was second vntounto none,
Whose deth (though life) we rue, &and wrong, &and al in vain do mone,
Their losse, not him waile they, that fill the world with cries,
Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.
Now sinke of sorrow I, who liuelive, the more the wrong,
Who wishing death, whom deth denies, whose thred is al to lõglong,
Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe,
Must spend my euerever dying daies, in neuernever ending griefe.
Harts ease and onely I, like parables run on,
Whose equall length, keep equall bredth, and neuernever meet in one,
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes cell,
Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so well.
Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreames,
Farewell sometimes enioyedenjoyed, ioyjoy, eclipsed are thy beames,
Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth,
And farewel friendships sacred league, vnitinguniting minds of woorth.
And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes,
And all sports, which for liueslives restore, varietie assignes,
Let all that sweete is voyd; in me no mirth may dwell,
Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my
liueslives content farewell.
Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill,
And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,
Go seekes that haples tombe, which if ye hap to finde,
Salute the stones, that keep the lims, that held so good a minde.
FINIS.
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