Love, born in Greece, of late fled from his native place, <br />Forc'd by a tedious proof, that Turkish harden'd heart <br />Is no fit mark to pierce with his fine pointed dart, <br />And pleas'd with our soft peace, stayed here his flying race. <br /> <br />But finding these north climes do coldly him embrace, <br />Not used to frozen clips, he strave to find some part <br />Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art: <br />At length he perch'd himself in Stella's joyful face, <br /> <br />Whose fair skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on snow, <br />Deceiv'd the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light <br />Effects of lively heat must needs in nature grow. <br /> <br />But she most fair, most cold, made him thence take his flight <br />To my close heart, where while some firebrands he did lay, <br />He burnt un'wares his wings, and cannot fly away.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-8-love-born-in-greece/
