Sonnet 21: Your Words, My Friend
Your
words,
my
friend,
(right
healthful
caustics)
blame
My
young
mind
marr'd,
whom
Love
doth
windlass
so,
That
mine
own
writings
like
bad
servants
show
My
wits,
quick
in
vain
thoughts,
in
virtue
lame;
That
Plato
I
read
for
nought,
but
if
he
tame
Such
doltish
gyres;
that
to
my
birth
I
owe
Nobler
desires,
lest
else
that
friendly
foe,
Great
Expectation,
were
a
train
of
shame.
For
since
mad
March
great
promise
made
of
me,
If
now
the
May
of
my
years
much
decline,
What
can
be
hoped
my
harvest
time
will
be?
Sure
you
say
well,
"Your
wisdom's
golden
mine,
Dig
deep
with
learning's
spade."
Now
tell
me
this,
Hath
this
world
aught
so
fair
as
Stella
is?