Late tir'd with woe, ev'n ready for to pine, <br />With rage of love, I call'd my love unkind; <br />She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine, <br />Sweet said that I true love in her should find. <br /> <br />I joy'd, but straight thus water'd was my wine, <br />That love she did, but lov'd a Love not blind, <br />Which would not let me, whem she lov'd, decline <br />From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind: <br /> <br />And therefore by her love's authority, <br />Will'd me these tempests of vain love to flee, <br />And anchor fast myself on Virtue's shore. <br /> <br />Alas, if this the only metal be <br />Of Love, new-coin'd to help my beggary, <br />Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-62-late-tir-d-with-woe/
