Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware, <br />That you allow me them by so small rate? <br />Or do you cutted Spartans imitate? <br />Or do you mean my tender ears to spare, <br />That to my questions you so total are? <br />When I demand of Phœnix Stella's state, <br />You say, forsooth, you left her well of late: <br />O God, think you that satisfies my care? <br />I would know whether she did sit or walk; <br />How cloth'd, how waited on; sigh'd she, or smil'd; <br />Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk; <br />With what pastime time's journey she beguiled; <br />If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name. <br />Say all; and all well said, still say the same.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xcii-be-your-words-made/
