Poem by Robert Sidney

Sonnet 17. The endless alchemist, with blinded will

The endless alchemist, with blinded will,
That feeds his thoughts with hopes, his hopes on shows,
And more his work proves vain more eager grows
While dreams of gold his head with shadows fill.

Fills not more sure the scourge of flatt’ring skill,
When in false trust of wealth true needs he knows,
Than I, on whom a storm of losses blows
And tides of errors run: yet sail on still

While my corrupted sense doth think it sees
A long sought land of rest, and while to bliss
I think there is a way, though yet I miss.

Thus shunning to have lost, I still do leese,
And hope and want: and strive and fail: and prove
Nor end with joys, nor end from cares of love.

1. Sonnet 21. Alas why say you I am ritch?
2. Sonnet 12. Who gives himself, may ill his words deny
3. Sonnet 8. If that her worth I could as well forget
4. Sonnet 15. You that haue power to kil, haue will to saue
5. Sonnet 6. When rest locks up the treasures of delight

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