Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

O SWEET woods, the delight of solitariness,

O, how much do I love your solitariness!

From fame’s desire, from love’s delight retired,

In these sad groves an hermit’s life I led;

And those false pleasures which I once admired,

With sad remembrance of my fall, I dread.

To birds, to trees, to earth, impart I this,

For she less secret and as senseless is.

Experience, which alone repentance brings.

Doth bid me now my heart from love estrange:

Love is disdained when it doth look at kings,

And love low placed is base and apt to change.

Their power doth take from him his liberty,

Her want of worth makes him in cradle die.

O sweet woods, the delight of solitariness,

O, how much do I love your solitariness!