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Saturday Sonnet.

The pursuit of love can ruin one’s youth, but the modern in me says that there are worse things: from the love of the virtual to depgeneration, from waifu to heroin.

For Sydney at least knew his Plato. We are fallen: we think that the ancients cannot teach us, for they are white, male, and dead.

More fool us.

Your words, my friend, (right healthfull caustiks), blame
My young mind marde, whom Loue doth windlas so;
That mine owne writings, like bad seruants, show
My wits quicke in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;
That Plato I read for nought but if he tame
Such coltish yeeres; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame:
For since mad March great promise made of mee,
If now the May of my yeeres much decline,
What can be hop’d my haruest-time will be?
Sure, you say well, Your wisedomes golden myne
Dig deepe with Learnings spade. Now tell me this:
Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?

Sir Philip Sydney

Wisdom does not preclude love. But know this: no woman, no man, is completely virtous. Stella was not. Neither was Sydney. Neither are you, nor me. But pretty can make the poison go down. Be aware, and look behind the face.

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