Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 65

Love, by sure proof I may call thee unkind,
That giv’st no better ear to my just cries;
Thou whom to me such my good turns should bind,
As I may well recount, but none can prize;
For when, naked boy, thou could’st no harbour find
In this old world, grown now so too too wise,
I lodged thee in my heart, and being blind
Bu nature born, I gave to thee mine eyes.
Mine eyes, my light, my heart, my life, alas;
If so great services may scorned be,
Yet let this thought thy tigerish courage pass:
That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee,
Since in thine arms, if learn’d fame truth hath spread,
Thou bear’st the arrow, I the arrowhead.

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: the “As” that begins line 4 is tied back to “such” in line 3, so the sense is “the good deeds that I am able to list (‘recount’)—though I won’t boast of them (‘prize’)—should be enough to put you in my debt.”
“Naked” in line 5 is one syllable (“nak’d”); “scorned” in line 10 is two, and “tigerish” in line 11 is elided to two.
The word “arms” in line 13 refers to a coat of arms, in heraldry.

In Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Cassius, while having a tempestuous spat with his long-time pal Brutus, pleads: “A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities; but Brutus makes mine greater than they are.”  The point is that mere friendship—let alone past favors—should buy one a certain level of indulgence for one’s peccadilloes. Cassius’s charge against Brutus is similar to what the speaker says of Love (i.e., Cupid) here: if he really is a spirit of love, he should think of the speaker in terms of all the “good turns” or favors that the speaker has done for him. The poem starts modestly listing these in the second quatrain (with “outie” quatrains, the argument flows straight through the octave): when Cupid could no longer find a home in a “world grown wise”—wisdom, as we know, being the implacable adversary of love—the speaker made him welcome, even going so far as to provide “eyes” for the blind Cupid; i.e., the speaker sees entirely through the eyes of love.

As the octave ends, the speaker realizes he has been far too modest in the claims of obligation he has made on Love. He has not merely taken him in and provided him with eyes, but has given over his entire being to Love. The line that makes this transition and takes us “up a level” (in the current vernacular) is a lovely pair of explicit synecdoches: eyes = light (which could mean consciousness or intellect), while heart = life itself. The other two lines of the first tercet are used to set up the “clincher” argument in the final three lines. If you can’t honor me as a friend, he says, my trump card is that we’re actually related. How do you tell if aristocratic Englishmen are in the same family? You look for overlapping imagery in the coats of arms. It takes a footnote (such as that of Duncan-Jones) at this point to alert us that the Sidney arms feature arrowheads, while Cupid is obviously associated with arrows. That is the fairly arcane and specific meaning of the  final couplet, but the more general (and possibly erotic) sense is just as important: Cupid’s arrows would be useless (I was about to say “pointless”) without the speaker’s additions.

Next time (weekend of January 9): Sonnet 66
Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.

Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 31

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies;
How silently, and with how wan a face.
What, may it be that even in heav’nly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

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: “Even” in both lines 3 and 9 is one syllable.

“What” at the start of line 3 is an expletive (common in Renaissance verse); resist the urge to ignore the comma and read “What may it be . . .”

“Above” in line 12 modifies “they,” and should therefore be followed by a slight lift before reading on; this also adds emphasis to the bevy of rhymes right there.

The inversion in the final line will be discussed below.

This is one of the best-known, oft-anthologized Sidney poems, and for good reason—although reading it outside the context of the whole sequence, or following only other popular ones such as Sonnets 1 and 10, might make a reader wonder why the speaker has “suddenly” taken such a dim view of Stella. Those of us who have been carefully following the whole sonnet sequence, of course, are right at home with these complaints.

Personifying the moon is a cliché of poetry and song, and Sidney was by no means the first to focus on paleness as the moon’s most noticeable feature. But this poem is a world apart from “Shine on, harvest moon” or even “Blue moon, you saw me standing alone,” in the closeness it achieves with the personified object. With the phrase “even of fellowship,” we realize we are looking at two guys who find themselves otherwise alone, in the pub on a Friday night, when everyone else has a date. The shared confidence between strangers, the immediate assumption that the other guy’s “case” is precisely the same as yours—this is the realism in the midst of utter fantasy that makes this one of the greatest poems in the language.

Structurally, the poem is as typical a model of Sidney’s sonnets as there could be: his favorite octave, sestet, and whole rhyme scheme; a fulcrum after line 8 (though not with a u-turn, just a “new departure” in the conversation); and a quiet division of the sestet, indicated simply by having each tercet start with a two-line question, and follow with a one-line question. The poem is a structural equivalent of a little black dress, simple and understated but elegant and classic.

The opening line establishes a literal scene, but also subtly indicates the speaker’s lonely condition and state of mind: is this a slow evening, or what? (Watching a moon rise, when you remove the poetry, must be akin to watching grass grow or paint dry.) The “wan face” is, from old, stereotypical for a courtly lover, so the mental association immediately bumps the speaker away from natural observation to the mythology of love, specifically his favorite tormentor, Cupid.

As a lover’s acquaintances are all too apt to do, the speaker leaps at once (“Sure”) to the answer to his own question, and the assumption that the moon must suffer the same affliction as himself. “If that” means “if it be that,” or simply “if,” so the unstressed “that” is barely a hiccup in the reading. The hyphens in the phrase that follows are crucial to the reading. Strictly speaking, we use one-word modifiers before nouns in English, and multi-word modifiers (such as prepositional phrases or relative clauses) after; so hyphens are crucial to turn many words into one. If you don’t believe me, take the hyphens out (as some editors, alas, do) and put the poem in front of a class of first-time viewers, and see how this line turns out! “Eyes” is of course a conventional synecdoche* for the speaker himself, who feels he is precisely the fellow-sufferer who can best judge the moon’s symptoms: just like him, the moon “feelst a lover’s case.”  This is a metaphysical claim, and like most such claims (in poetry, at least) it is both preposterous and totally convincing (slow steps, wan face . . .) at the same time.

Readers of the whole sequence to this point know that the speaker has been getting precious little sympathy or empathy from his friends. In catch-phrases from the world of 20th-century entertainment, while he “can’t get no satisfaction” in his love-life, he also “can’t get no respect” from those who know him best. So his recognition of a fellow-sufferer on whom he can disburden himself (albeit indirectly, through more questions) is heart-felt. The four questions to the moon in the sestet reveal the deep bitterness he feels at Stella’s response to his love, and at least his view of the complexity or hypocrisy of that response. She could, after all, just tell him to drop dead, and put an end to all this foolishness. Instead, she just questions his sanity (“wit”); instead, she “loves to be loved,” and appears to take pride in both the attention and her virtuous rejection of it.

The final line almost certainly needs to be read as a tortured inversion meaning (in normal order) “Do they call ungratefulness virtue there?” I say “almost” because a case might be made that the speaker has shifted to a comparison with himself, and might be admitting that he refers to Stella’s “virtue” as “ungratefulness.” But such a reading disrupts a consistent pattern, established in the sestet, of describing the attitudes of “proud” beauties, by implication the attitude of Stella. And the most logical extension, in particular, of lines 12 and 13, is that Stella takes mere ingratitude and dresses it up with the name of “virtue.”

So the poem has moved seamlessly from natural description to fanciful conversation to a set of questions that reveal more than they ask.

* the poetic figure in which a part stands for a whole, and quite often taking the form of part of the body representing the whole person.

Next time (weekend of September 20): Sonnet 32

Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.

Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 15

You that do search for every purling spring
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows;
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary’s method bring
Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch’s long-deceased woes
With new-born sighs and denizened wit do sing:
You take wrong ways, those far-fet helps be such
As do bewray a want of inward touch,
And sure at length stol’n goods do come to light.
But if (both for your love and skill) your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

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: “denizened” in line 8 is two syllables (den’zened), and in line 14, “to endite” must be elided (t’endite); and “deceasèd” in line seven has all three syllables.

This sonnet is a piece of cake if one is already acquainted with sonnets 3 and 6.  The tenor is almost precisely the same, and the structure parallels sonnet 3 in particular, where the octave describes various “wrong ways” to do poetry, and the sestet says the only right way is (as the speaker is doing) to contemplate Stella.  The chief structural differences are (1) that sonnet 3 is a “them” vs. “me” discussion, while sonnet 15 is entirely addressed to “you”; and (2) while the sonnet 3 octave uses two “outie” (ABAB) quatrains for a continuous discussion, this one has two parallel “innies” (ABBA), so the discussion “starts over” in line 5.

Just as sonnets 3 and 6 begin with a reference to seeking the help of the classical muses, so too does this one talk about searching for the springs (i.e., the works of ancient poets) that flow from Mount Parnassus, home of the muses. A “purling” spring is simply a bubbling, flowing one, but there is a pun here, since the poets who so search are looking for “pearls” with which to decorate their verse, just as they are squeezing (“wringing”) the no-longer-fresh (“sweet”) flowers for some sad drops of stale perfume.

The second quatrain references somewhat more recent poetic fads, starting with “dictionary’s method.”  At first glance, since he says “into your rhymes,” we might think of the novice poet’s consulting of a rhyming dictionary; but I’m pretty sure such a thing had not been invented yet (thus, Benedick “can think of no rhyme for lady but baby”) and “rhymes” is used in the more general sense of “poems.”  In any case, as line 6 wonderfully illustrates, the method involves choosing as many neighboring words as possible from an alphabetized list; i.e., the fad of excessive alliteration.  And the fad of Petrarchan sonnets (in which, as discussed before, Sidney was very much a participant) closes this list, with the clever suggestion that the emotion may be home-grown (“new-born sighs”) but the method (“wit”) is imported (“denizened,” meaning naturalized or immigrant).

As in earlier poems (1, line 14, 3, line 9, and 6, line12), the rebuke, when it comes, is blunt and monosyllabic: “You take wrong ways.”  The rest of the first tercet is also quite plain and uncomplicated.  Likewise, the remedy in the final three lines is the same as in all the previous sonnets on this theme, but with a new and striking image: instead of nursing at the springs of now-skeletal (because ancient) Parnassus for inspiration, the would-be poet should “seek to nurse at fullest breasts of fame,” a synecdoche for Stella that is erotic—thus aspirational on Sidney’s part—as well as inspirational.

Next time (weekend of February 8): Sonnet 16

Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.

Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 7

When Nature made her chief work, Stella’s eyes,
In color black why wrapped she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest luster mixed of shades and light?
Or did she else that sober hue devise
In object best to knit and strength our sight,
Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise,
They, sun-like, should more dazzle than delight?
Or would she her miraculous power show,
That, whereas black seems beauty’s contrary,
She even in black doth make all beauties flow?
Both so, and thus: she, minding Love should be
Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed
To honor all their deaths, who for her bleed.

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 note: meter is preserved by eliding “mirac’lous” in line 9 and “e’en” in line 11.

Did someone say “heavenly beams, infusing hellish pain”?  The Petrarchan cliché of the previous poem becomes the subject of this one!

Typical of Sidney’s sonnets, this combines standard Italian form with the logic of an English sonnet*: in this case, three blocks (4-4-3 in length) of “questions” and a 3-line “answer.”  To break that down a bit further, it’s one “real” question (basically, “What was Nature up to?”) and then three possible “answers,” in the form of the questions “Is it Answer A?” or “Is it Answer B?” or “Is it Answer C?”  The answer is, first, “All of the above . . . ,” and then, in a final twist, “. . . plus Answer D as well.”  So I will use these brief paraphrases for the labels of my outline below.

The Real Question (lines 1-2).  Stella’s flashing eyes (with which we will become very well acquainted in these sonnets!) are, paradoxically, dark in hue, or in Renaissance parlance, black.  This is all the more paradoxical because darkness is stereotypically disfavored in female features at this time (a stereotype oft honored in the breach, of course), and generally symbolizes evil.  Perhaps this is also the place to mention that female beauty in this time was regarded as a combination of the work of “Nature” and the added work of “Art,” with Nature’s work of course the more highly prized (at least in poetry) of the two.  So why did Nature do this very strange thing?

Answer A (3-4).  Perhaps she has been studying with the Dutch and Italian masters (“painter wise”), and thus understands that to make black shine (“luster”; note that the oldest sense of “dainty” is “excellent” or “precious”), it is necessary to mix light and dark paint in the same space.

Answer B (5-8).  Or perhaps Nature was concerned for the well-being of the rest of us, and needed to support (“knit”) and strengthen our sight in order to prepare it for something that might otherwise overwhelm it; so the darkness in Stella’s flashing eyes is like sunglasses on a particularly bright day, or perhaps the smoked glass by which one’s eyes are fortified to view a solar eclipse.  We can, of course, take “delight” in sunlight if we are properly protected against its power.

Answer C (9-11).  Or could it be that Nature, the artist, is just showing off, like a chess player playing blindfolded, or Mozart playing a long, complex piece from memory that he had heard only once.  In this case the “miraculous” feat is to capture “all beauties” in the very opposite of beauty, blackness.

The real answer: all (“both”) of the above, plus one more. (Note that, until fairly recently, “both” could be used with a series of more than two, as in Coleridge’s “He prayeth well who loveth well, /Both man and bird and beast.”)  The “all of the above” is disposed of in a single poetic foot, and then we get the additional answer, which is that our initial paradox is doubled back on itself: there is indeed an “evil” side to this darkness, even as it is framed in hyperbolic admiration.  Nature wanted the personified Love to take up residence in Stella’s eyes (a direct anticipation of the tale to be told in Sonnet 8), but if he lives there, he must wear black (“mourning weed”), out of respect for all the lovers who have “died” for her (in that age of battles, duels, and executions, “bleed” was a common synecdoche for “die”). This too is a shadow of things to come in the love saga of our speaker.

* For the typical structure of a Sidney sonnet, see the “Introduction” post.

Next time (weekend of November 2): Sonnet 8

 Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.