The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness <br /> Bewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes, <br /> Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, <br /> With idle pains and missing aim do guess. <br /> Some, that know how my spring I did address, <br /> Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies; <br /> Others, because the prince my service tries, <br /> Think that I think state errors to redress; <br /> But harder judges judge ambition's rage-- <br /> Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry place-- <br /> Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage. <br /> O fool or over-wise! alas, the race <br /> Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start <br /> But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/astrophel-and-stella-xxiii/
