Philip Sidney Quotes

[This] much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour for lacking skill of a sonnet, and, when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an epigraph.

I…am admitted into the company of paper-blurrers.

Comedy is an imitation of the common errors of our life, which he representeth in the most ridiculous and scornful sort that may be, so as it is impossible that any beholder can be content to be such a one.

With a tale forsooth he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner.

Poetry therefore, is an art of imitation… A speaking picture, with this end: to teach and delight.

Nature’s world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden.

And truly, even Plato, whosoever well considereth shall find that in the body of his work, though the inside and strength were philosophy, the skin as it were and beauty depended most on poetry.

I have just cause to make a pitiful defence of poor poetry, which from almost the highest estimation of learning is fallen to be the laughing stock of children.

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame; Who seek, who hope, who love, who live, but thee: Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history; If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.

I am no pick-purse of another wit.

Oh heav’nly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace That Anger’s self I needs must kiss again.

Hope, art thou true, or dost thou flatter me?

That sweet enemy, France.

Come sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, The indifferent judge between the high and low.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay; Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows… Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, ‘Fool,’ said my muse to me; ‘look in thy heart, and write.’

Loving in truth, and vain in verse my love to show, That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know; Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain.

A lamentable tune is the sweetest music to a woeful mind.

O sweet, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged? Shall such high planets tend to the loss of a worm?

My true love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange one for the other giv’n; I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driv’n.

What be the fruits of speaking art? What grows by the words?