With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! <br /> How silently, and with how wan a face! <br /> What, may it be that even in heav'nly place <br /> That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! <br /> Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes <br /> Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, <br /> I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace <br /> To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. <br /> Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, <br /> Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? <br /> Are beauties there as proud as here they be? <br /> Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet <br /> Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? <br /> Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/astrophel-and-stella-xxxi/
