Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 72 and Second Song

Desire, though thou my old companion art,
And oft so clings to my pure love, that I
One from the other scarcely can descry,
While each doth blow the fire of my heart;
Now from thy fellowship I needs must part;
Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly;
I must no more in thy sweet passions lie;
Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart.
Service and honour, wonder with delight,
Fear to offend, will worthy to appear,
Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite;
These things are left me by my only dear.
But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all,
Now banished art—but yet, alas, how shall?

I suggest you click here to open the sonnet in a separate window, so that you can refer directly to it as you read on through the analysis.

. . . Our story continues. When we left off, our love-sick speaker had tried to maintain his new-found virtue for a whole sonnet, only to have personified Desire break in in the final line and demand to be fed. This sonnet is the speaker’s response to Desire, in which, like a stout recovering addict, he holds off the temptation for just a bit longer, thirteen and two fifths lines, to be exact.

I’m perhaps too flippant about a universal (or at least universally recognizable) conflict between the demands of “pure love” (the Platonic bonding of souls, or “marriage of true minds,” as Shakespeare famously phrased it) and the less pure desires that often intrude upon it. The first quatrain acknowledges this conflict, and the second ostensibly resolves it in favor of the Platonic virtue: the passionate Venus must give way to the virginal Dianna; Cupid’s arrowheads (see Sonnet 65) are now capped with “Virtue’s gold.”

Desire, as an abstract noun, has been a member of a “team” of such nouns, which are named, and in some cases modified, in the first tercet of the sestet: service, honour, wonder, delight, fear (to offend), (worthy) will—these are all still acceptable (we are told in line 12), but Desire has been booted off the team. And that . . . is that.

But three feet remain in the poem, just enough for a fragmentary protest against the injustice of it all: “but yet, alas, how shall?” How shall you possibly be banished? How shall I live without you?

Second Song

Have I caught my heavenly jewel,
Teaching sleep most fair to be?
Now will I teach her that she,
When she wakes, is too, too cruel.

Since sweet sleep her eyes hath charmed,
The two only darts of Love:
Now will I with that boy prove
Some play, while he is disarmed.

Her tongue waking still refuseth,
Giving frankly niggard “no”;
Now will I attempt to know
What “no” her tongue sleeping useth.

See, the hand which waking guardeth,
Sleeping, grants a free resort;
Now will I invade the fort;
Cowards love with loss rewardeth.

But, oh, fool, think of the danger
Of her just and high disdain:
Now will I, alas, refrain,
Love fears nothing else but anger.

Yet those lips so sweetly swelling
Do invite a stealing kiss:
Now will I but venture this,
Who will read, must first learn spelling.

O sweet kiss—but ah, she’s waking.
Louring beauty chastens me;
Now will I away hence flee;
Fool, more fool, for no more taking.

Reading notes: “heavenly” in line 1 is elided to two syllables; the feminine rhymes in the first and fourth lines of all the other stanzas suggest that “jewel,” “cruel,” “charmed,” and “disarmed” in the first two stanzas are pronounced with the added syllable at the end.

The dominant meter of this song is trochaic tetrameter, with a silent final beat (in music, a “rest”) in the middle lines of each stanza, thus a masculine rhyme sandwiched between a feminine rhyme in each instance.

The song is playful in both form and subject matter, but with the slightly sinister undertone of Jachimo’s crime in Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, and somewhat serious, or at least lingering, consequences in the sonnets that follow. The turn in the “plot” here is simply that the speaker finds Stella sleeping and steals a kiss.

The second stanza offers the slightly odd idea that the speaker is jousting (“prove some play”) with Cupid while Cupid s “disarmed,” since the eyes that are Cupid’s arrows (“darts”) are closed; but “prove” also suggests that he is just “testing” or trying out the fruits of love. The third and fourth stanzas make it clear that he understands this is a trespass, in terms of the waking understanding between Stella and him; and there is a moment of hesitation in the fifth, when he considers the cost of making her angry.

The last two stanzas are where the sinister hint of his true intentions appears. The lips are just too appealing, we are told in the penultimate stanza, where the educational metaphor of the final line suggests that love-making has to start somewhere, so . . .

And then in the final stanza, after the actual kiss both wakens and angers her, causing him to flee, he immediately regrets that he had not “tak[en]” more.

Next time (weekend of April 17): Sonnet 73
Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.

Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 62

Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine,
With rage of love, I called my love unkind;
She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine,
Sweet said that I true love in her should find.
I joyed, but straight thus watered was my wine,
That love she did, but loved a love not blind,
Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:
And therefore by her love’s authority,
Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly,
And anchor fast myself on virtue’s shore.
Alas, if this the only metal be
Of Love, new-coined to help my beggary,
Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.

I suggest you click here to open the sonnet in a separate window, so that you can refer directly to it as you read on through the analysis.

Reading notes: As usual, “even” in line 1 is a single syllable. The word “fly” in line 10, for Sidney, would have rhymed with “be” and the final syllable of “authority” and “beggary,” but this need only be noted mentally in modern reading.

This is a companion sonnet to the previous one, and we might borrow Wordsworth’s title “The Tables Turned” for at least its final line, where the paradox that ended Sonnet 61 is reversed.

Like Sonnet 61, there is an “extroverted” rhyme scheme in the octave, and here the near-rhymes of the A’s and B’s reflects two “loves” that also sound alike but aren’t. Line 4, at first blush, sounds as if it might be the breakthrough moment we have waited for throughout the sequence: Stella sweetly says she DOES love me after all!

The joyful response lasts for exactly two words, or two syllables, or one brief foot, before the other shoe begins to drop, beginning with a teaser metaphor of watered wine. It turns out she has a sincere, pure, Platonic love for the speaker—not the “blind,” passionate love of Cupid, but the heavenly kind that sees clearly by the light of reason. And in the spirit of love, she wishes him to be as perfect as he can be, and as his pedigree (“birth”) and talents (“mind”) promise for him. The first tercet of the sestet continues the main idea of the sonnet by giving the clear implication of this special “love’s authority”: as in Sonnet 61, she shows her form of love by urging him to abandon his.

The fulcrum comes after line 11, as the final three lines give the speaker’s response. Setting it up with the metaphor of love as a “metal” from which improving ideas are “coined,” he says that if that’s the way it has to be, he wishes she would stop “loving” him that way, so that she could “love” him the other way. The two words “love” in the final line obviously mean two different things, and the meaning of the word has in fact been subtly shifting all through the poem, especially in line 6, where the meaning shifts over from his to hers, and here at the end, where it shifts back, referring at the end to the passionate relationship the speaker would like to have.

Next time (weekend of November 28): Sonnet 63
Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.