β
If it is true that there are books written to escape from the present moment, and its meanness and its sordidity, it is certainly true that readers are familiar with a corresponding mood. To draw the blinds and shut the door, to muffle the noises of the street and shade the glare and flicker of its lightsβthat is our desire. There is then a charm even in the look of the great volumes that have sunk, like the βCountess of Pembrokeβs Arcadiaβ, as if by their own weight down to the very bottom of the shelf. We like to feel that the present is not all; that other hands have been before us, smoothing the leather until the corners are rounded and blunt, turning the pages until they are yellow and dogβs-eared. We like to summon before us the ghosts of those old readers who have read their Arcadia from this very copyβRichard Porter, reading with the splendours of the Elizabethans in his eyes; Lucy Baxter, reading in the licentious days of the Restoration; Thos. Hake, still reading, though now the eighteenth century has dawned with a distinction that shows itself in the upright elegance of his signature. Each has read differently, with the insight and the blindness of his own generation. Our reading will be equally partial. In 1930 we shall miss a great deal that was obvious to 1655; we shall see some things that the eighteenth century ignored. But let us keep up the long succession of readers; let us in our turn bring the insight and the blindness of our own generation to bear upon the βCountess of Pembrokeβs Arcadiaβ, and so pass it on to our successors.
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Virginia Woolf
β
Who still doth seek against himself offences,
What pardon can avail? Or who employs him
To hurt himself, what shields can be defences?
Woe to poor man: each outward thing annoys him
In diverse kinds; yet as he were not filled,
He heaps in inward grief that most destroys him.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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My desire is pained, because it cannot hope; and if hope came, his best should be but mischief.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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the thoughts are but outflowings of the mind, and the tongue is but a servant of the thoughts.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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For such, alas, are we all! In such a mould are we cast that, with the too much love we bear ourselves being first our own flatterers, we are easily hooked with others' flattery, we are easily persuaded of others' love.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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O time, become the chariot of my joys;
As thou draw'st on, let my bliss draw near.
Each moment lost, part of my hap destroys.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Black ink becomes the state wherein I die.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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He said that music best thilke powers pleased
Was jump concord between our wit and will,
Where highest notes to godliness are raised,
And lowest sink not down to jot of ill.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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envy harb'reth most in feeblest hearts
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Thus man was made; thus man their lord became;
Who at the first, wanting or hiding pride,
He did to beasts' best use his cunning frame,
With water drink, herbs meat, and naked hide,
And fellow-like let his dominion slide,
Not in his sayings saying 'I', but 'we';
As if he meant his lordship common be.
But when his seat so rooted he had found
That they now skilled not how from him to wend,
Then gan in guiltless earth full many a wound,
Iron to seek, which gainst itself should bend
To tear the bowels that good corn should send.
But yet the common dam none did bemoan,
Because (though hurt) they never heard her groan.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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If that love be a fault, more fault in you to be lovely;
love never had me oppressed, but that I saw to be loved.
You be the cause that I love; what reason blameth a shadow
that with a body't goes, since by a body it is?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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There is nothing more desirous of novelties than a man that fears his present fortune.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Take the pre-eminence in all things but in true loving', answered Musidorus, 'for the confession of that no death shall get of me.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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What hope to quench where each things blows the fire?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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barbarous opinion, to think with vice to do honour, or with activity in beastliness to show abundance of love.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Let no man lay confidence there where company takes away shame, and each may lay the fault in his fellow.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Will hath his will when Reason's will doth miss.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Who others' virtue doubt, themselves are vicious.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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For who grieves not hath but a blockish brain,
Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Thus tossed in my ship of huge desire,
Thus toiled in my work of raging love,
Now that I spy the hav'n my thoughts require,
Now that some flow'r of fruit my pains do prove,
My dreads augment the more in passion's might,
Since love with care, and hope with fear do fight.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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I go blindfold wither the course of my ill-hap carries me
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Come cave, become my grave; come death, and lend
Receipt to me within thy bosom dark!
For what is life to daily dying mind
Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe;
Where too much sight makes all the body blind,
And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw?
Thus then my form, and thus my state I find:
Death wrapped in flesh, to living grave assigned.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Come, cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight;
Sorrow, suck up the marrow of my might;
Due sighs, blow out all sparks of joyful light;
Tire on, despair, upon my tired sprite!
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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This cave is dark, but it had never light.
This wax doth waste itself, yet painless dies.
These words are full of woes, yet feel they none.
I darkened am, who once had clearest sight.
I waste my heart, which still new torment tries.
I plain with cause, my woes are all mine own.
No cave, no wasting wax, no words of grief,
Can hold, show, tell, my pains without relief.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Vice is but a nurse of new agonies
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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there is least hope of mercy where there is no acknowledging of the pain
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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nothing can endure where order nis.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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But yet, O man, rage not beyond thy need;
Deem it no gloire to swell in tyranny.
Thou art of blood; joy not to make things bleed.
Thou fearest death; think they are loath to die.
A plaint of guiltless hurt doth pierce the sky.
And you, poor beasts, in patience bide your hell,
Or know your strengths, and then you shall do well.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Friend without change, playfellow without strife,
Food without fullness, counsel without pride,
Is this sweet doubling of our single life.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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No mortal man the cup of surety drinks.
The heav'ns do not good haps in handfuls bring,
But let us pick our good from out much bad
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Man oft is plagued with air, is burnt with fire,
In water drowned, in earth his burial is;
And shall we not therefore their use desire?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Who only sees the ill is worse than blind.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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For, indeed, the confidence in oneself is the chief nurse of true magnanimity; which confidence notwithstanding doth not leave the care of necessary furnitures for it, and therefore of all the Grecians Homer doth ever make Achilles the best armed.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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the killing oneself is but a false colour of true courage, proceeding rather of fear of a further evil, either of torment or shame.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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who builds not upon hope shall fear no earthquake of despair.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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who whatsoever he finds evil in his own soul can with ease lay it upon another
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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So darkened am that all my day is evening,
Heart-broken so, that molehills seem high mountains
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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I joy in grief, and do detest all joys;
Despise delight, am tired with thoughts of ease.
I turn my mind to all forms of annoys,
And with the change of them my fancy please.
I study that which most may me displease,
And in despite of that most my soul destroys;
Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight;
Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart,
I think from me, not from my woes, to part.
I think from me, not from my woes, to part,
And loathe this time called life, nay think that life
Nature to me for torment did impart;
Think my hard haps have blunted death's sharp knife,
Not sparing me in whom his works be rife;
And thinking this, think nature, life, and death
Place sorrow's triumph on my conquered heart.
Whereto I yield, and seek no other breath
But from the scent of some infectious grave;
Nor of my fortune aught but mischief crave.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow;
No being now but sorrow I can have;
Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow,
Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast
Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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My ship, myself, whose course to love doth bend,
Sore beaten doth her mast of comfort spend;
Her cable, reason, breaks from anchor, hope;
Fancy, her tackling, torn away doth fly;
Ruin, the wind, hath blown her from her scope;
Bruised with waves of care, but broken is
On rock, despair, the burial of my bliss.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Vain is their pain who labour in despair.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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For to those persons who have vomitted out of their souls all remnants of goodness there rests a certain pride in evil, and having else no shadow of glory left them, they glory to be constant in iniquity
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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commonly they use their feet for their defence, whose tongue is their weapon.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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laws are not made like lime twigs or nets to catch everything that toucheth them, but rather like sea marks to avoid the shipwrack of ignorant passengers
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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We last short while, and build long-lasting places.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve
As nature's work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve,
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might;
While each conceit an ugly figure bears,
Which were not ill, well viewed in reason's light.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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in such a shadow or rather pit of darkness the wormish mankind lives that neither they know how to foresee nor what to fear, and are but like tennis balls tossed by the racket of the higher powers.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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for who will stick to him that abandons himself?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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virtue, like the clear heaven, is without clouds
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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the fool can never be honest since, not being able to balance what points virtue stands upon, every present occasion catches his senses, and his senses are masters of his silly mind.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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the greatest point outward things can bring a man unto is the contentment of the mind, which once obtained, no state is miserable; and without that, no prince's seat restful.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Nor true love loves his loves with others mingled be.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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love which lover hurts is inhumanity.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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No thralls like them that inward bondage have.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Oft comes relief when most we seem in rap.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Whom wit makes vain, or blinded with his eyes,
What counsel can prevail, or light give light,
Since all his force against himself he tries?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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He water ploughs, and soweth in the sand,
And hopes the flick'ring wind with net to hold,
Who hath his hopes laid up in woman's hand.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Let not a glitt'ring name thy fancy dress
In painted clothes, because they call it love.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Passion bears high when puffing wit doth blow,
But is indeed a toy; if not a toy,
True cause of ills, and cause of causeless woe.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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We oft are angrier with the feeble fly
For business where it pertains him not
Than with the pois'nous toads that quiet lie.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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outward pleasures be but halting helps to decayed souls
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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great is not great to a greater.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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In shame there is no comfort but to be beyond all bounds of shame.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve:
Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love:
On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve:
I wail their lot, but will not other prove.
My sheephook is wanhope which all upholds:
My weeds, desire, cut out in endless folds.
What wool my sheep shall bear, while thus they live,
In you it is, you must the judgment give.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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unlawful desires are punished after the effect of enjoying, but impossible desires are plagued in the desire itself.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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O jealousy, the frenzy of the wise, the well wishing spite and unkind carefulness, the self-punishment for other's fault and self-misery in other's happiness, the sister of envy, daughter of love, and mother of hate.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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wisdom and virtue be the only destinies appointed to man to follow, wherein one ought to place all his knowledge, since they be such guides as cannot fail which, besides their inward comfort, do make a man see so direct a way of proceeding as prosperity must necessarily ensue.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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he cannot be good that knows not why he is good, but stands for good as his fortune may keep him unassayed.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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it is strange to see the unmanlike cruelty of mankind who, not content with their tyrannous ambition to have brought the others' virtuous patience under them, like childish masters, think their masterhood nothing without doing injury to them who (if we will argue by reason) are framed of nature with the same parts of the mind for the exercise of virtue as we are.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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What marvel, then, I take a woman's hue,
Since what I see, think, know, is all but you?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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They are never alone', said she 'that are accompanied with noble thoughts.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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O love, since thou art so changeable in men's estates, how art thou so constant in their torments?
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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He must fly from himself that will shun his evil.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)
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Let not thy tongue become a fiery match,
No sword bites as that ill tool annoys.
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Philip Sydney (The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia)