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TO THE ANGEL SPIRIT OF THE MOST EXCELLENT SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: To thee pure sprite, to thee alone's address'd
Last Line: Oh happie chaunge! Could I so take my leave.
Alternate Author Name(s): Pembroke, Countess Of
Subject(s): Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-1586)


To thee pure sprite, to thee alone's addres't
this coupled worke, by double int'rest thine:
First rais'de by thy blest hand, and what is mine
inspird by thee, thy secrett power imprest.
So dar'd my Muse with thine it selfe combine,
as mortall stuffe with that which is divine,
Thy lightning beames give lustre to the rest,

That heaven's King may daigne his owne transform'd
in substance no, but superficiall tire
by thee put on; to praise, not to aspire
To, those high Tons, so in themselves adorn'd,
which Angells sing in their cælestiall Quire,
and all of tongues with soule and voice admire
Theise sacred Hymnes thy Kinglie Prophet form'd.

Oh, had that soule which honor brought to rest
too soone not left and reft the world of all
what man could showe, which wee perfection call
This halfe maim'd peece had sorted with the best.
Deepe wounds enlarg'd, long festred in their gall
fresh bleeding smart; not eie but hart teares fall.
Ah memorie what needs this new arrest?

Yet here behold, (oh wert thou to behold!)
this finish't now, thy matchlesse Muse begunne,
the rest but peec't, as left by thee undone.
Pardon (oh blest soule) presumption too too bold:
if love and zeale such error ill-become
'tis zealous love, Love which hath never done,
Nor can enough in world of words unfold.

And sithe it hath no further scope to goe,
nor other purpose but to honor thee,
Thee in thy workes where all the Graces bee,
As little streames with all their all doe flowe
to their great sea, due tribute's gratefull fee:
so press my thoughts my burthened thoughtes in mee,
To pay the debt of Infinits I owe

To thy great worth; exceeding Nature's store,
wonder of men, sole borne perfection's kinde,
Phoenix thou wert, so rare thy fairest minde
Heav'nly adorn'd, Earth justlye might adore,
where truthfull praise in highest glorie shin'de:
For there alone was praise to truth confin'de;
And where but there, to live for evermore?

Oh! when to this Accompt, this cast upp Summe,
this Reckoning made, this Audit of my woe
I call my thoughts, whence so strange passions flowe;
Howe workes my hart, my sences striken dumbe?
that would thee more, then ever hart could showe,
and all too short who knewe thee best doth knowe
There lives no witt that may thy praise become.

Truth I invoke (who scorne else where to move
or here in ought my blood should partialize)
Truth, sacred Truth, Thee sole to solemnize
Those precious rights well knowne best mindes approve:
and who but doth, hath wisdome's open eies,
not owly blinde the fairest light still flies
Confirme no lesse? At least 'tis seal'd above.

Where thou art fixt among thy fellow lights:
my day put out, my life in darkenes cast,
Thy Angell's soule with highest Angells plac't
There blessed sings enjoying heav'n-delights
thy Maker's praise: as farr from earthy tast
as here thy workes so worthilie embrac't
By all of worth, where never Envie bites.

As goodly buildings to some glorious ende
cut of by fate, before the Graces hadde
each wondrous part in all their beauties cladde,
Yet so much done, as Art could not amende;
So thy rare workes to which no witt can adde,
in all men's eies, which are not blindely madde,
Beyonde compare above all praise, extende.

Immortall Monuments of thy faire fame,
though not compleat, nor in the reach of thought,
howe on that passing peece time would have wrought
Had Heav'n so spar'd the life of life to frame
the rest? But ah! such losse hath this world ought
can equall it? or which like greevance brought?
Yet there will live thy ever praised name.

To which theise dearest offrings of my hart
dissolv'd to Inke, while penn's impressions move
the bleeding veines of never dying love:
I render here: these wounding lynes of smart
sadd Characters indeed of simple love
not Art nor skill which abler wits doe prove,
Of my full soule receive the meanest part.

Receive theise Hymnes, theise obsequies receive;
if any marke of thy sweet sprite appeare,
well are they borne, no title else shall beare.
I can no more: Deare Soule I take my leave;
Sorrowe still strives, would mount thy highest sphere
presuming so just cause might meet thee there,
Oh happie chaunge! could I so take my leave.





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