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SIDNEY, Philip


XXXI. With How Sad Steps

With how sad steps, Oh Moon, thou climb’st the skies,

How silently, and with how wan a face!

What, may it be that even in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feels’t a lover’s case;

I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace,

To me that feel the like, thy state decries,

Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me

Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here they be?

Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?