They're good sonnets, too.
In the end, of course, Sidney died the most romantic possible death, not only giving water to another wounded soldier "Thy necessity is yet greater than mine" but composing a song to be sung at his funeral as he lay on his death bed. (Though when I say romantic, I mean in retrospect: bring shot in the leg and then dying later of gangrene could not have been the least bit pretty.)
To make this even more astonishing, he died at the age of thirty one, an age at which many young men nowadays have only just left university (Sidney graduated from Christ Church, Oxford).
Here's his Sonnet No I. It's a love sonnet, of course, but it's really about creative writing.
I can't imagine anyone ever packing so much useful experience into fourteen exquisite lines.