Sir Philip Sidney

Song

WHO hath his fancy pleased
    With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
    On Nature's sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever
    And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,
    Is cause the looker dies.

She never dies, but lasteth
    In life of lover's heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
    In love his chiefest part:
Thus is her life still guarded
    In never-dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
    Since she lives in his death.

Look then, and die! The pleasure
    Doth answer well the pain:
Small loss of mortal treasure,
    Who may immortal gain!
Immortal be her graces,
    Immortal is her mind;
They, fit for heavenly places—
    This, heaven in it doth bind.

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!