Soul's joy, bend not those morning stars from me, <br />Where Virtue is made strong by Beauty's might, <br />Where Love is chasteness, Pain doth learn delight, <br />And Humbleness grows one with Majesty. <br /> <br />Whatever may ensue, oh let me be <br />Copartner of the riches of that sight: <br />Let not mine eyes be hell-driv'n from that light: <br />Oh look, oh shine, oh let me die and see. <br /> <br />For though I oft myself of them bemoan, <br />That though my heart their beamy darts be gone, <br />Whose cureless wounds ev'n now most freshly bleed: <br /> <br />Yet since my death-wound is already got, <br />Dear killer, spare not thy sweet cruel shot: <br />A kind of grace it is to kill with speed.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-48-soul-s-joy-bend-not/
