Your words, my friend, (right healthful caustics) blame <br />My young mind marr'd, whom Love doth windlass so, <br />That mine own writings like bad servants show <br />My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame; <br /> <br />That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame <br />Such doltish gyres; that to my birth I owe <br />Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe, <br />Great Expectation, were a train of shame. <br /> <br />For since mad March great promise made of me, <br />If now the May of my years much decline, <br />What can be hoped my harvest time will be? <br /> <br />Sure you say well, "Your wisdom's golden mine, <br />Dig deep with learning's spade." Now tell me this, <br />Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxi-your-words-my-friend/
