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Philip, the first child of Sir Henry Sidney and his wife, Mary, née Dudley, was born in 1554 at Penshurst in Kent, "on Friday the last of November, being St. Andrews day, a quarter before five in the morning." Present at the birth were his royal Spanish godfather and his maternal grandmother, whose husband, John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland ...
18 de nov. de 2021 · Sir Philip Sidney (30 November 1554 – 17 October 1586) was an English poet, courtier, scholar and soldier. While he did not write much poetry and certainly didn’t think of himself as a writer, he has remained remembered as one of the most prominent figures of the Elizabethan age. Sidney’s most famous works include Astrophel and Stella ...
But thus much at least, with his no few words he draue into me, that selfeloue is better then any guilding, to make that seem gorgious wherin our selues be parties. The Defence of Poesie. Sir Philip Sidney. William Ponsonby. London. 1595.
5 de dic. de 2011 · Sir Philip Sidney - November 2011. To save this book to your Kindle, first ensure coreplatform@cambridge.org is added to your Approved Personal Document E-mail List under your Personal Document Settings on the Manage Your Content and Devices page of your Amazon account.
Sir Philip Sidney lived an active life as a courtier, solider, diplomat, and writer. He was born at Penshurst Place, in Kent in 1554. His father, Sir Henry Sidney, was appointed lord president of the Marches of Wales by Queen Elizabeth in 1559, and was later posted in Ireland; he was often absent from Penshurst.
It has long been thought that Astrophel actually represented Sidney, while Stella was Penelope Devereux, sister of the Earl of Essex and wife of Robert, Lord Rich. In fact, several of the sonnets seem to refer to Lord Rich, for example Sonnet 24, “Rich fools there be,” which uses the word “rich” four times.
Sonnet XIV: Alas, Have I Not. Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend, Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire, Than did on him who first stole down the fire, While Love on me doth all his quiver spend, But with your rhubarb words you must contend, To grieve me worse, in saying that desire. Doth plunge my well-form’d soul even in the mire.
