Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 4
Virtue, alas, now let me take some rest;
Thou sett'st a bate between my will and wit;
If vain Love have my simple soul oppressed,
Leave what thou lik’st not, deal not thou with it.
Thy scepter use in some old Cato's breast,
Churches or schools are for thy seat more fit:
I do confess—pardon a fault confessed—
My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.
But if that needs thou wilt usurping be
The little reason that is left in me,
And still th' effect of thy persuasions prove:
I swear, my heart such one shall show to thee,
That shrines in flesh so true a deity,
That, Virtue, thou thy self shalt be in love.
Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 10
Reason, in faith thou art well served, that still
Would'st brabbling be with sense and love in me.
I rather wished thee climb the muses' hill,
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heaven's course, or heaven's inside, to see:
Why should'st thou toil our thorny soil to till?
Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be:
Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will.
But thou would'st needs fight both with love and sense,
With sword of wit giving wounds of dispraise,
Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence:
For soon as they strake thee with Stella's rays,
Reason, thou kneeled'st, and offered'st straight to prove
By reason good, good reason her to love.