Astrophil And Stella Sonnet 1 Analysis Essay


Sir Philip Sidney:
Astrophil and Stella 1


N.B.: the spelling varies between Astrophil and Astrophel for different editions. I prefer the former, since it means "Star-loving", while Stella, of course, means "Star."

This is mostly to suggest a general pattern for in-class presentations, so that you can give us your reflections and ideas as quickly and directly as possible, and we can have time to discuss them. You can vary your presentation style as you like, but it would be helpful for you to have your comments entered as a brief text file, from which you could cut and paste pieces for each section. It is probably longer than what you are likely to find, and certainly I wouldn't expect you to come up with nearly as much of the classical material.


Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain;
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know;
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain;
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame study's blows;
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
'Fool,' said my muse to me; 'look in thy heart, and write.'



This is one of those (fairly frequent) love poems that is more about the composition of love poetry than about love itself. Its chief narrative thread is this: the author has tried to express his love in poetry, but has been relying on study, rather than on direct perception of the truth to do so; when this fails, the muse advises him, "Look in thy heart and write," a phrase that will serve as a theme for the whole set.

The poem is either self-exemplifying or self-negating, depending how one views it; for, even though it stands as a denunciation of "learned" techniques in poetry, it also relies on the devices of classical rhetoric and poetry. In the end, even the muse's advice in the end is an appeal to an established topos of its own going back to Plato's suspicion of rhetoric and the Sophists. One can see echoes of Cato the Elder's advice, "Rem tene, verba sequuntur" -- "Pay attention to the matter; the words will follow." In a parallel vein, Ovid develops the idea (Amores I.1) of a frustrated poet going about his job the wrong way, only to be released when he capitulates to Cupid.


Like most Italianate sonnets, this one breaks down into two parts of eight and six lines, respectively. The turning point in line 9 is introduced by the adversative, "But...". The first eight lines set out the idea and the motivation, and describe the failed technique, in a classic (and rational) mode; the last six create a sense of increasing agitation, both through their use of subject matter and by metrical manipulation, until the final release in the end of the last line with a romantic (primarily emotional) advice.


The poem's syntax not only carries the message, but also embodies it: the first eight lines are in fact a single periodic sentence exemplifying a rational relationship of cause and effect. The first four contain only dependent material: 1) a complex participial phrase ("loving...and show)" and 2) a lengthy dependent clause of purpose ("That she...") filling lines 2-4 with the rhetorical figure known as a *climax*, a linked stair-step sequence of terms in which one leads to another. The main clause is thus deferred, but is fairly simple when it arrives in the first half of line 5. From it almost immediately grows another elaboration of purpose and another participial phrase ("Oft turning...") with another dependent infinitive of purpose ("to see..."). With delicate irony he expresses the hope that this over-wrought start (which, if not stale, is at least itself a very studious product) will produce something "fresh and fruitful."

The second half is different; whereas the entire structure of the first eight lines balances on a single independent clause, lines 9-11 offer three independent clauses in rapid succession, and loads them up with lively and direct words. The effect is a grounding of the elaborately poised structure of the first part, with a commensurate discharge of energy. The final three lines give us a lengthier sentence-structure, but one filled again with powerful imagery heaped up in disarray: indeed, the final line of the poem is strictly an anacoluthon (that is, it does not follow properly from what comes before): the participles and adjectives of lines 12-13 ("great with child", "helpless", "biting", and "beating") all must be understood to refer to the poet himself; but syntactically they owe allegiance to the subject of the main clause on which they depend -- not the poet at all, but "my muse". Whether this is an error or whether it is a deliberate anacoluthon to express emotional agitation (the same technique is found in classical Latin poetry as well) would be hard to say, though it seems unlikely that a person of Sidney's learning would have made so prominent (and so effective) an error unintentionally.


Possibly problematic words include:

Metrics and rhyme scheme

The meter is an unusual six-foot line (twelve syllables); there are a handful of other sonnets in this collection that fit this description. Two lines might be misread by modern readers as having thirteen syllables:

"Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain." Here I believe the "y" of "studying" needs to be treated as a semivowel/glide -- thus making it a word of two syllables.

"Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain": here, "showers" (sometimes written "shoures") needs to be considered a monosyllable.

The rhyme scheme can be represented as: ABAB ABAB CDCD EE

Sidney varies his rhyme schemes rather freely throughout Astrophil and Stella; here the monotony of the ABAB ABAB tends to reinforce the notion of the tedious but fruitless study. The rhyme scheme tends to pick up speed, leading to the acceleration of the climax.


Contents of this page © Copyright 1998, Bruce A. McMenomy

(NOTE: The first two entries in this blog were first posted elsewhere, so I have included them together in my first post on this site.)


Sir Philip Sidney had a short life (1554-1586, 32 years), crowded with incident. He was a very handsome, talented, pedigreed, and well-connected aristocrat and courtier—his uncle was the Earl of Leicester, for example—and even a Member of Parliament at the precocious age of 18. He had the best education the age could afford, having gone first to Shrewsbury School and then to Oxford. He would likely have learned figures of speech as tools of rhetoric, but sonnet-writing would probably not have been an academic discipline. Both at university, though, and in subsequent travels on the continent as soldier and diplomat, he had ample exposure to the poets of the time, and he moved in literary circles; Sonnet 1 of Astrophil and Stella freely acknowledges that he has emulated others in developing his own poetic voice:

Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.

In 1575, the Sidney family accompanied Queen Elizabeth on her famous visit to Kenilworth, and the trip afterward included a stop at the home of young Penelope Devereux—13 or 14 at the time—with whom Philip was immediately smitten with a love that lasted the rest of his life. A marriage was arranged, but in a circumstance straight out of renaissance comedy, Penelope’s father died before the deal was completed, and her new guardian arranged a more mercenary marriage, against her will, to Robert, Lord Rich, in 1581. At about the same time, Sidney began the sonnet sequence which was published after his death with the title of Astrophil and Stella. Stella is quite definitely identified with Penelope (there are puns on her husband’s suggestive name), and if the sonnets are autobiographical beyond that (always a tricky assumption), they suggest that Sidney tried to persuade her to become his mistress, and she stoutly refused, in spite of her clear and continuing affection for him. The name Stella has overt symbolic reference to the translation “star.” The name Astrophil (“star-lover”) was inserted in the title after the fact, and only appears in the Eighth and Ninth Songs, which are in the pastoral mode. It is conventional to refer to “the speaker” in discussing a lyric poem, since the speaker and the poet are not necessarily the same.  But in these poems the “speaker” is pretty reliably the Philip Sidney who is in love with Penelope Devereux Rich.

Sidney’s sonnets may lack the depth of thought and emotion captured almost uniquely by Shakespeare in his sonnets, but they are perfect little gems of craft built around fairly conventional ideas. If Shakespeare is Michelangelo,Sidney is Andrea del Sarto; if Shakespeare is Mozart, Sidney is Haydn. Shakespeare is constantly somehow transcending the “received” ideas that are the basis of his poems; Sidney is a perfect textbook of the literary and philosophical conventions of his time, done up with high art.  I like to say that a great sonnet is a small piece of art of great value, but available to anyone to own.  Shakespeare might have more of his sonnets hanging in the Louvre or the Hermitage, but any collector would be proud to have a Sidney in her own collection.

Astrophil and Stella consists of 108 sonnets (the main focus of this blog) interrupted irregularly by eleven “songs” of varying meters. The sonnet sequence seems generally chronological, and has at least some autobiographical reference to Sidney’s futile fascination with Penelope Devereux, initially betrothed, later married, to Lord Rich. She carries the name of Stella in the sequence, with overt symbolic reference to the translation “star.”

Although in earlier collections Sidney had experimented with other forms, the sonnets in Astrophil and Stella are all Italian, which means divided by rhyme scheme (and usually punctuation) into an octave and a sestet (eight lines and six); as opposed to the English (or Shakespearean) sonnet, divided into three quatrains and a couplet. The typical “logic” of an Italian sonnet is: octave = “set up the problem” and sestet = “deal with it,” while the English sonnet allows a sort of cat’s teasing of the “problem” in three different (possibly parallel, possibly contrastive) stabs, followed by a neat and clever wrap-up in the last two lines.

Sidney has two distinctive variations on the Italian pattern:

1. By far his favorite rhyme scheme in the sestet (after whatever combination of A’s and B’s in the octave) is CDCDEE, which he uses in 82 of the 108 sonnets (to which I should add 3 instances of CDDCEE).  This creates, in effect, a “hybrid” sonnet form, in which the reader has both the “logic” of an Italian sonnet and the satisfying “punch line” of a Shakespearean couplet, wrapping things up.

2.  Adding further complexity, upwards of eighty per cent of the time Sidney subdivides his sestet into two three-line ideas, with a “strong” break (semi-colon or stronger) after line eleven. Because he does this so regularly, I will use the term tercet (= three-line stanza) to refer to each half of the sestet, even though by strictest definition a tercet should have a rhyme scheme of its own.  By the same logic, I will often speak of the two quatrains that make up the octave.  Thus the typical Sidney sonnet divides, first, into two parts (octave and sestet), and then again, into four parts (two quatrains and two tercets). There are, of course, exceptions, where either octave or sestet is not divided in the middle by punctuation or logic.

Despite the uniformity of all Italian sonnets (even sonnet 89, which illustrates the repetitive monotony of days and nights passing in Stella’s absence by rhyming only the words “night” and “day,” takes the 8-and-6 structure of  ABBAABBA ABABAB), and some obvious preferences for rhyming in the octave (ABBAABBA 75 times) and the sestet (as mentioned, CDCDEE 82 times), it is rare to have exactly the same full rhyme scheme for more than a few sonnets in a row, and there are actually fifteen different rhyme schemes employed in the sonnets of the sequence. There are also (appropriately) six sonnets in which Sidney uses hexameter lines rather than the conventional pentameters. (These are 1, 6, 8, 76, 77, and 102.)  On the other hand, I don’t think there is ever a feminine rhyme (where an unstressed eleventh syllable is added at the end of the line and both of the last two syllables rhyme; e.g., flý iňg and dý iňg) in the sonnets of Astrophil and Stella —if I discover otherwise, I’ll let you know!

Quatrains, like belly-buttons, can be “innies” or “outies.”  The ABBA scheme, which seems to be circling back on itself, is an “innie.” The ABAB scheme, which keeps moving forward to what follows, is an “outie.” Sidney has a fairly strong preference for the “innie,” using it in more than 70% of his quatrains.

Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 1

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know;
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain;
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburnt brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows;
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”

I suggest you click here to open the sonnet in a separate window, so that you can refer directly to it as you read on through the analysis.

This sonnet is paradoxically the most iconic of all Sidney’s poems (the one more readers are familiar with than any other), and not really a sonnet at all—at least, if you use the definition most of us rely on, “fourteen lines of rhymed iambic pentameter.”  (However, if you use the more liberal and practical definition, “a poem that looks like a box,” it’s just fine—and it is, after all, the first entry in the first English sonnet sequence in history.)  The poem, of course, has 28 extra syllables, an elaborate representation of the pun in line 11, “And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way,” the iambic hexameters being the preferred “alexandrines” of the French poets; and “in my way” having both the neutral sense of “on my road (or journey)” and “stopping me from getting to the love poetry I want to write.”  Line 11 happens to be the final line of the statement of the “problem,” before the 3-line climactic ending, and the fulcrum between it and line 12 is arguably stronger than the more predictable one (for an Italian sonnet) before the “But” that begins line 9.  With the pun on “feet” and the use of alexandrines, the poet announces the arrival of a clever, sophisticated voice; while with the quotation from the muse in the final line, he announces that that voice will be governed by passion, thus illustrating the oxymoronic phrase “feeling skill” in Sonnet 2.

With the luxury of added elbow room in the lines, the poem proceeds by four cumulative and climactic stages containing but one instance of an active verb with the speaker as subject—“I sought” at the start of line 5—and fittingly that one forward motion is not toward, but away from, his actual objective.  Otherwise we are bogged in –ing words that suggest stagnation on the speaker’s part, even as the poem’s logic lurches forward. He is loving, studying, turning (others’ leaves), (his words come) halting, (because they were) wanting, biting (his pen), and beating (himself) without getting anywhere at all, and then the “muse” speaks to him in direct, imperative, monosyllabic language: “Fool . . . look in thy heart, and write”—language that, incidentally, flies in the face of all the contemporary poetic principles (including Sidney’s own) and anticipates English Romanticism by about 200 years.

Each of the quatrains in the octave, plus the first tercet of the sestet, ends in a climactic phrase, but these phrases (and the passages they conclude) grow increasingly lame and frustrated. The first quatrain has an entirely forward-moving, optimistic development; the speaker has a plan, culminating in the heavenly dream of obtaining Stella’s “grace”—a euphemism out of the courtly love tradition, meaning the love-object lady (imagined like God showering blessings on a sinner) actually bends to the suitor’s will. In the second, he seeks to put his plan in action, and there is still a hopefulness about the activity (looking for poetic models to imitate), but basking in the light of others leads only to a “sunburnt brain.”  So the “But” that opens the sestet is not so much a u-turn as a confirmation of doubts already planted, and lines 9-11 are both a verbal picture of a man stumbling badly, and a ringing endorsement of nature and originality over “study,” imitation, and artifice.  And the concluding phrase here has lost even the intensity of “sunburnt brain”; now it is the stalled, hapless “still seemed but strangers in my way.”  The speaker has gone from a positive, reasoned plan of action at the outset to a state aptly named in the following line: helpless (and also, metaphorically, in the last stage of pregnancy and chewing on a pen, but never mind that!)

So the stage is set for perhaps the most effective and best known dangling modifier in all of poetry, as the speaker backs into the dramatic and sudden appearance of the muse, periodic in both the temporal and the grammatical senses. Oddly, for someone who studied so many classical models, the speaker has not invoked the muse, nor even prepared the syntax for her arrival; she comes unbidden and unexpected, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

Other odds and ends:

The use of “leaves” (pages) and “showers” (inspiration) in lines 7 and 8 conditions the reader’s mind for the imagery of refreshment and renewal, so “sunburnt brain” is a particularly harsh and frustrating letdown.

Lines 9-11 may at first appear a mixed metaphor, rather than one continuous conceit, but it is possible to read it as a series of free-association “handoffs.” The image of each new line may not precisely fit with that of the previous line, but it is suggested by it. “Invention’s stay” (the editorial choice to capitalize Sidney’s personifications helps a reader envision the imagery) suggests a crutch (or in the modern world, perhaps a walker), but it could also be a young child leaned on by the “halting” patient; so it is not far-fetched to have that same child, Invention (child of Nature), driven away by the cruel stepmother Study, presumably leaving the patient—the “halting words”—to fall in a heap at the speaker’s feet, the “feet” of others now only getting in his way.

Next time (weekend of August 10): Sonnet 2

Jonathan Smith is Professor of English at Hanover College, Hanover, Indiana.

This entry was posted in Sonnet Analysis and tagged alexandrines, Astrophil and Stella, conceit, feet, French poets, fulcrum, hexameter, iambic, innie, Italian sonnet, Lord Rich, metaphor, muse, octave, outie, oxymoron, oxymoronic, Penelope Devereux, pentameter, personification, quatrain, renaissance, rhyme scheme, Romanticism, sestet, Shakespeare, Shakespearean sonnet, Sidney, sonnet, Sonnet 1, sonnet definition, strong break, tercet by Jonathan Smith. Bookmark the permalink.


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