Sonnet 8. If that her worth I could as well forget
If that her worth I could as well forget As of my love the hapless lot I know, Then to my wounded soul a mean might grow Which if not health, yet some ease would beget. But when I think I have my quiet met And that love foiled yields to his overthrow, The idol of her beauties proud doth show Unto my thoughts, in beams which never set. Summoned by so great truth, I must confess That all what fair, what good, what perfect is, All is in her, nothing in her doth miss: And now grief takes the place love did possess And all hopes dead, I live to feel this sore— More that she worthy is, my loss the more.
Robert Sidney’s other poems:
- Sonnet 11. Though the most perfect style cannot attain
- Sonnet 15. You that haue power to kil, haue will to saue
- Sonnet 10. She whom I serve to write did not despise
- Sonnet 6. When rest locks up the treasures of delight
- Sonnet 12. Who gives himself, may ill his words deny
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