Astrophil
and Stella, Sonnet
69
O joy, too high for my low style to show!
O bliss, fit for a nobler
state than
me!
Envy, put out thine eyes,
lest thou do see
What oceans of delight in me do flow!
My friend, that oft saw through all masks my woe,
Come, come, and let me
pour myself on
thee.
Gone is the winter of my
misery,
My spring appears; O see what here doth grow!
For Stella hath, with words where
faith doth shine,
Of her high heart giv'n me the monarchy;
I, I, O I may say that she is mine!
And though she give but thus conditionally
This realm of bliss, while
virtuous course
I take,
No kings be crowned but
they some covenants
make.