Philip Sidney

Come, let me write. ‘And to what end?’ To ease
   A burdened heart. ‘How can words ease, which are
   The glasses of thy daily vexing care?’
Oft cruel fights well pictured forth do please.
‘Art not ashamed to publish thy disease?’
   Nay, that may breed my fame, it is so rare.
   ‘But will not wise men think thy words fond ware?’
Then be they close, and so none shall displease.
   ‘What idler thing, than speak and not be heard?’
What harder thing than smart and not to speak?
Peace, foolish wit; with wit my wit is marred.
Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreak
   My harms on ink's poor loss; perhaps some find
   Stella's great powers, that so confuse my mind.