Sonnet 62: Late, Tir'd With Woe
Sir Philip Sidney 1554 (Penshurst, Kent) – 1586 (Zutphen)
Late tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine,
With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind;
She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine,
Sweet said that I true love in her should find.
I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine,
That love she did, but lov'd a Love not blind,
Which would not let me, whem she lov'd, decline
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:
And therefore by her love's authority,
Will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee,
And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore.
Alas, if this the only metal be
Of Love, new-coin'd to help my beggary,
Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 39 sec read
- 101 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABAB ABAB CCD CDD |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 631 |
Words | 122 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 4, 3, 3 |
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"Sonnet 62: Late, Tir'd With Woe" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/35304/sonnet-62:-late,-tir'd-with-woe>.
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