by Sir Philip Sydney
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 changèd?
Dear, when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estrangèd,
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:
What 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 saint's 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.