Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 21

Your words, my friend, right healthful caustics, blame
     My young mind marred, whom love doth windlass so
     That mine own writings like bad servants show,
My wits, quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;
That Plato I read for nought, but if he tame
     Such coltish gyres; that to my birth I owe
     Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame.
     For since mad March great promise made of me,
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest time will be?
Sure you say well; your wisdom's golden mine
     Dig deep with learning's spade; now tell me this,
     Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?