Philip Sidney

What may words say, or what may words not say,
Where truth itself must speak like flattery?
Within what bounds can one his liking stay,
Where nature doth with infinite agree?
   What Nestor's counsel can my flames allay,
Since reason's self doth blow the coal in me?
And ah, what hope that hope should once see day,
Where Cupid is sworn page to chastity?
Honor is honored, that thou dost possess
   Him as thy slave; and now long-needy fame
   Doth even grow rich, naming my Stella's name.
Wit learns in thee perfection to express;
   Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is raised;
   It is a praise to praise, when thou art praised.