A Ditty

Sir Philip Sidney - 1554-1586

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:
   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

More by Sir Philip Sidney

The Twenty-Third Psalm

Dominus regit me

The Lord the Lord my shepherd is,
   And so can never I
      Taste misery.
He rests me in green pasture His.
   By waters still and sweet
      He guides my feet.

He me revives, leads me the way
   Which righteousness doth take,
      For His name's sake.
Yea though I should through valleys stray
   Of death's dark shade I will
      No whit fear ill.

For Thou dear Lord Thou me beset'st,
   Thy rod and Thy staff be
      To comfort me.
Before me Thou a table set'st,
   Ev'n when foe's envious eye
      Doth it espy.

With oil Thou dost anoint my head,
   And so my cup dost fill
      That it doth spill.
Thus thus shall all my days be fed,
   This mercy is so sure
      It shall endure,
And long yea long abide I shall,
   There where the Lord of all
      Doth hold His hall.

The Nightingale

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth 
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, 
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, 
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, 
And mournfully bewailing, 
Her throat in tunes expresseth 
What grief her breast oppresseth 
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, 
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: 
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; 
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. 

Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish 
But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken, 
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish; 
Full womanlike complains her will was broken. 
But I, who daily craving, 
Cannot have to content me, 
Have more cause to lament me, 
Since wanting is more woe than too much having. 
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, 
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: 
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; 
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.