VIII
Love, borne in Greece, of late fled from his native place—
Forc'd by a tedious proofe that Turkish hardned hart
Is not fit marke to pierce his fine-pointed dart—
And, pleas'd with our soft peace, staid here his flying race:
But, finding these north clymes too coldly him embrace,
Not usde to frozen clips, he strave to find some part
Where with most ease and warmth he might employ his art;
At length he perch'd himself in Stella's joyfull face,
Whose faire skin, beamy eyes, like morning sun on snow,
Deceiv'd the quaking boy, who thought, from so pure light,
Effects of lively heat must needs in nature grow:
But she, most faire, most cold, made him thence take his flight
To my close heart; where, while some firebrands he did lay,
He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.
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Sir Philip Sidney
