False hope prolongs my ever certain grief,Traitor to me, and faithful to my love.A thousand times it promised me relief,Yet never any true effect I prove.Oft when I find in her no truth at all,I banish her, and blame her treachery;Yet soon again I must her back recall,As one that dies without her company.Thus often, as I chase my hope from me,Straightway she hastes her unto Delia's eyes;Fed with some pleasing look, there shall she be,And so sent back. And thus my fortune lies;Looks feed my hope, hope fosters me in vain;Hopes are unsure when certain is my pain.
False hope prolongs my ever certain grief,Traitor to me, and faithful to my love.A thousand times it promised me relief,Yet never any true effect I prove.Oft when I find in her no truth at all,I banish her, and blame her treachery;Yet soon again I must her back recall,As one that dies without her company.Thus often, as I chase my hope from me,Straightway she hastes her unto Delia's eyes;Fed with some pleasing look, there shall she be,And so sent back. And thus my fortune lies;Looks feed my hope, hope fosters me in vain;Hopes are unsure when certain is my pain.
Look in my griefs, and blame me not to mourn,From care to care that leads a life so bad;Th'orphan of fortune, born to be her scorn,Whose clouded brow doth make my days so sad.Long are their nights whose cares do never sleep,Loathsome their days who never sun yet joyed;The impression of her eyes do pierce so deep,That thus I live both day and night annoyed.Yet since the sweetest root yields fruit so sour,Her praise from my complaint I may not part;I love th'effect, the cause being of this power;I'll praise her face and blame her flinty heart,Whilst we both make the world admire at us,Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.
Look in my griefs, and blame me not to mourn,From care to care that leads a life so bad;Th'orphan of fortune, born to be her scorn,Whose clouded brow doth make my days so sad.Long are their nights whose cares do never sleep,Loathsome their days who never sun yet joyed;The impression of her eyes do pierce so deep,That thus I live both day and night annoyed.Yet since the sweetest root yields fruit so sour,Her praise from my complaint I may not part;I love th'effect, the cause being of this power;I'll praise her face and blame her flinty heart,Whilst we both make the world admire at us,Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.
Reignin my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice!Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate!Yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choiceOf such as spoil thy poor afflicted state!For whilst they strive which shall be lord of all,All my poor life by them is trodden down;They all erect their trophies on my fall,And yield me nought that gives them their renown.When back I look, I sigh my freedom past,And wail the state wherein I present stand,And see my fortune ever like to last,Finding me reined with such a heavy hand.What can I do but yield? and yield I do;And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too!
Reignin my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice!Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate!Yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choiceOf such as spoil thy poor afflicted state!For whilst they strive which shall be lord of all,All my poor life by them is trodden down;They all erect their trophies on my fall,And yield me nought that gives them their renown.When back I look, I sigh my freedom past,And wail the state wherein I present stand,And see my fortune ever like to last,Finding me reined with such a heavy hand.What can I do but yield? and yield I do;And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too!
Alluding to the sparrow pursued by a hawk, that flew into the bosom of Zenocrates
Whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flewInto the sacred refuge of thy breast;Thy rigour in that sanctuary slewThat which thy succ'ring mercy should have blest.No privilege of faith could it protect,Faith being with blood and five years witness signed,Wherein no show gave cause of least suspect,For well thou saw'st my love and how I pined.Yet no mild comfort would thy brow reveal,No lightning looks which falling hopes erect;What boots to laws of succour to appeal?Ladies and tyrants never laws respect.Then there I die from whence my life should come,And by that hand whom such deeds ill become.
Whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flewInto the sacred refuge of thy breast;Thy rigour in that sanctuary slewThat which thy succ'ring mercy should have blest.No privilege of faith could it protect,Faith being with blood and five years witness signed,Wherein no show gave cause of least suspect,For well thou saw'st my love and how I pined.Yet no mild comfort would thy brow reveal,No lightning looks which falling hopes erect;What boots to laws of succour to appeal?Ladies and tyrants never laws respect.Then there I die from whence my life should come,And by that hand whom such deeds ill become.
Still in the trace of one perplexèd thought,My ceaseless cares continually run on,Seeking in vain what I have ever sought,One in my love, and her hard heart still one.I who did never joy in other sun,And have no stars but those that must fulfilThe work of rigour, fatally begunUpon this heart whom cruelty will kill,Injurious Delia!—yet, I love thee still,And will whilst I shall draw this breath of mine;I'll tell the world that I deserved but ill,And blame myself, t'excuse that heart of thine;See then who sins the greater of us twain,I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.
Still in the trace of one perplexèd thought,My ceaseless cares continually run on,Seeking in vain what I have ever sought,One in my love, and her hard heart still one.I who did never joy in other sun,And have no stars but those that must fulfilThe work of rigour, fatally begunUpon this heart whom cruelty will kill,Injurious Delia!—yet, I love thee still,And will whilst I shall draw this breath of mine;I'll tell the world that I deserved but ill,And blame myself, t'excuse that heart of thine;See then who sins the greater of us twain,I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.
Oft do I marvel whether Delia's eyesAre eyes, or else two radiant stars that shine;For how could nature ever thus deviseOf earth, on earth, a substance so divine?Stars, sure, they are, whose motions rule desires,And calm and tempest follow their aspects;Their sweet appearing still such power inspires,That makes the world admire so strange effects.Yet whether fixed or wandering stars are they,Whose influence rules the orb of my poor heart;Fixed, sure, they are, but wandering make me strayIn endless errors whence I cannot part.Stars, then, not eyes, move you with milder viewYour sweet aspect on him that honours you!
Oft do I marvel whether Delia's eyesAre eyes, or else two radiant stars that shine;For how could nature ever thus deviseOf earth, on earth, a substance so divine?Stars, sure, they are, whose motions rule desires,And calm and tempest follow their aspects;Their sweet appearing still such power inspires,That makes the world admire so strange effects.Yet whether fixed or wandering stars are they,Whose influence rules the orb of my poor heart;Fixed, sure, they are, but wandering make me strayIn endless errors whence I cannot part.Stars, then, not eyes, move you with milder viewYour sweet aspect on him that honours you!
The star of my mishap imposed this painTo spend the April of my years in grief;Finding my fortune ever in the wane,With still fresh cares, supplied with no relief.Yet thee I blame not, though for thee 'tis done;But these weak wings presuming to aspire,Which now are melted by thine eyes' bright sunThat makes me fall from off my high desire;And in my fall I cry for help with speed,No pitying eye looks back upon my fears;No succour find I now when most I need:My heats must drown in th'ocean of my tears,Which still must bear the title of my wrong,Caused by those cruel beams that were so strong.
The star of my mishap imposed this painTo spend the April of my years in grief;Finding my fortune ever in the wane,With still fresh cares, supplied with no relief.Yet thee I blame not, though for thee 'tis done;But these weak wings presuming to aspire,Which now are melted by thine eyes' bright sunThat makes me fall from off my high desire;And in my fall I cry for help with speed,No pitying eye looks back upon my fears;No succour find I now when most I need:My heats must drown in th'ocean of my tears,Which still must bear the title of my wrong,Caused by those cruel beams that were so strong.
And yet I cannot reprehend the flight,Or blame th'attempt, presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honours, great designs their fame,Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th'event oft answers not the same,Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blotTo have attempted though attained thee not.
And yet I cannot reprehend the flight,Or blame th'attempt, presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honours, great designs their fame,Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th'event oft answers not the same,Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blotTo have attempted though attained thee not.
Raising my hopes on hills of high desire,Thinking to scale the heaven of her heart,My slender means presumed too high a part,Her thunder of disdain forced me retire,And threw me down to pain in all this fire,Where lo, I languish in so heavy smartBecause th'attempt was far above my art;Her pride brooked not poor souls should come so nigh her.Yet, I protest, my high desiring willWas not to dispossess her of her right;Her sovereignty should have remainèd still;I only sought the bliss to have her sight.Her sight, contented thus to see me spill,Framed my desires fit for her eyes to kill.
Raising my hopes on hills of high desire,Thinking to scale the heaven of her heart,My slender means presumed too high a part,Her thunder of disdain forced me retire,And threw me down to pain in all this fire,Where lo, I languish in so heavy smartBecause th'attempt was far above my art;Her pride brooked not poor souls should come so nigh her.Yet, I protest, my high desiring willWas not to dispossess her of her right;Her sovereignty should have remainèd still;I only sought the bliss to have her sight.Her sight, contented thus to see me spill,Framed my desires fit for her eyes to kill.
Why dost thou, Delia, credit so thy glass,Gazing thy beauty deigned thee by the skies,And dost not rather look on him, alas!Whose state best shows the force of murdering eyes?The broken tops of lofty trees declareThe fury of a mercy-wanting storm;And of what force thy wounding graces areUpon myself, you best may find the form.Then leave thy glass, and gaze thyself on me;That mirror shows what power is in thy face;To view your form too much may danger be,Narcissus changed t'a flower in such a case.And you are changed, but not t'a hyacinth;I fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint.
Why dost thou, Delia, credit so thy glass,Gazing thy beauty deigned thee by the skies,And dost not rather look on him, alas!Whose state best shows the force of murdering eyes?The broken tops of lofty trees declareThe fury of a mercy-wanting storm;And of what force thy wounding graces areUpon myself, you best may find the form.Then leave thy glass, and gaze thyself on me;That mirror shows what power is in thy face;To view your form too much may danger be,Narcissus changed t'a flower in such a case.And you are changed, but not t'a hyacinth;I fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint.
I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,And golden hairs shall change to silver wire,And those bright rays that kindle all this fire,Shall fail in force, their working not so strong,Then beauty, now the burden of my song,Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire;Then fade those flowers that decked her pride so long.When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,Which then presents her whiter-withered hue,Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was,For what she was, she best shall find in you.Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,But phœnix-like shall make her live anew.
I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,And golden hairs shall change to silver wire,And those bright rays that kindle all this fire,Shall fail in force, their working not so strong,Then beauty, now the burden of my song,Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire;Then fade those flowers that decked her pride so long.When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,Which then presents her whiter-withered hue,Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was,For what she was, she best shall find in you.Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,But phœnix-like shall make her live anew.
Look, Delia, how w'esteem the half-blown rose,The image of thy blush, and summer's honour,Whilst yet her tender bud doth undiscloseThat full of beauty time bestows upon her.No sooner spreads her glory in the air,But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;She then is scorned that late adorned the fair;So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.No April can revive thy withered flowers,Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;Swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours,Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,But love now whilst thou mayst be loved again.
Look, Delia, how w'esteem the half-blown rose,The image of thy blush, and summer's honour,Whilst yet her tender bud doth undiscloseThat full of beauty time bestows upon her.No sooner spreads her glory in the air,But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;She then is scorned that late adorned the fair;So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.No April can revive thy withered flowers,Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;Swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours,Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,But love now whilst thou mayst be loved again.
But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again,Now whilst thy May hath filled thy lap with flowers,Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain,Now use thy summer smiles, ere winter lowers.And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun,The fairest flower that ever saw the light,Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done;And, Delia, think thy morning must have night,And that thy brightness sets at length to west,When thou wilt close up that which now thou showest,And think the same becomes thy fading best,Which then shall most inveil and shadow most.Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was,When once they find her flower, her glory pass.
But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again,Now whilst thy May hath filled thy lap with flowers,Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain,Now use thy summer smiles, ere winter lowers.And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun,The fairest flower that ever saw the light,Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done;And, Delia, think thy morning must have night,And that thy brightness sets at length to west,When thou wilt close up that which now thou showest,And think the same becomes thy fading best,Which then shall most inveil and shadow most.Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was,When once they find her flower, her glory pass.
When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,And thou with careful brow sitting aloneReceivèd hast this message from thy glassThat tells the truth, and says that all is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining.I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st,My faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter's spent;Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent.Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears,When winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,And thou with careful brow sitting aloneReceivèd hast this message from thy glassThat tells the truth, and says that all is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining.I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st,My faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter's spent;Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent.Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears,When winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
When winter snows upon thy sable hairs,And frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near,When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,And all lies withered that was held so dear;Then take this picture which I here present thee,Limned with a pencil not all unworthy;Here see the gifts that God and nature lent thee,Here read thyself and what I suffered for thee.This may remain thy lasting monument,Which happily posterity may cherish;These colours with thy fading are not spent,These may remain when thou and I shall perish.If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby;They will remain, and so thou canst not die.
When winter snows upon thy sable hairs,And frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near,When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,And all lies withered that was held so dear;Then take this picture which I here present thee,Limned with a pencil not all unworthy;Here see the gifts that God and nature lent thee,Here read thyself and what I suffered for thee.This may remain thy lasting monument,Which happily posterity may cherish;These colours with thy fading are not spent,These may remain when thou and I shall perish.If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby;They will remain, and so thou canst not die.
Thou canst not die whilst any zeal aboundIn feeling hearts than can conceive these lines;Though thou a Laura hast no Petrarch found,In base attire yet clearly beauty shines.And I though born within a colder clime,Do feel mine inward heat as great—I know it;He never had more faith, although more rhyme;I love as well though he could better show it.But I may add one feather to thy fame,To help her flight throughout the fairest isle;And if my pen could more enlarge thy name,Then shouldst thou live in an immortal style.For though that Laura better limnèd be,Suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she!
Thou canst not die whilst any zeal aboundIn feeling hearts than can conceive these lines;Though thou a Laura hast no Petrarch found,In base attire yet clearly beauty shines.And I though born within a colder clime,Do feel mine inward heat as great—I know it;He never had more faith, although more rhyme;I love as well though he could better show it.But I may add one feather to thy fame,To help her flight throughout the fairest isle;And if my pen could more enlarge thy name,Then shouldst thou live in an immortal style.For though that Laura better limnèd be,Suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she!
Be not displeased that these my papers shouldBewray unto the world how fair thou art;Or that my wits have showed the best they couldThe chastest flame that ever warmèd heart.Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame,My muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble.How many live, the glory of whose nameShall rest in ice, while thine is graved in marble!Thou mayst in after ages live esteemed,Unburied in these lines, reserved in pureness;These shall entomb those eyes, that have redeemedMe from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness.Although my careful accents never moved thee,Yet count it no disgrace that I loved thee.
Be not displeased that these my papers shouldBewray unto the world how fair thou art;Or that my wits have showed the best they couldThe chastest flame that ever warmèd heart.Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame,My muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble.How many live, the glory of whose nameShall rest in ice, while thine is graved in marble!Thou mayst in after ages live esteemed,Unburied in these lines, reserved in pureness;These shall entomb those eyes, that have redeemedMe from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness.Although my careful accents never moved thee,Yet count it no disgrace that I loved thee.
Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine,Have seen those walls which proud ambition rearedTo check the world, how they entombed have lainWithin themselves, and on them ploughs have eared;Yet never found that barbarous hand attainedThe spoil of fame deserved by virtuous men,Whose glorious actions luckily had gainedTh'eternal annals of a happy pen.And therefore grieve not if thy beauties dieThough time do spoil thee of the fairest veilThat ever yet covered mortality,And must instar the needle and the rail.That grace which doth more than inwoman thee,Lives in my lines and must eternal be.
Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine,Have seen those walls which proud ambition rearedTo check the world, how they entombed have lainWithin themselves, and on them ploughs have eared;Yet never found that barbarous hand attainedThe spoil of fame deserved by virtuous men,Whose glorious actions luckily had gainedTh'eternal annals of a happy pen.And therefore grieve not if thy beauties dieThough time do spoil thee of the fairest veilThat ever yet covered mortality,And must instar the needle and the rail.That grace which doth more than inwoman thee,Lives in my lines and must eternal be.
Most fair and lovely maid, look from the shore,See thy Leander striving in these waves,Poor soul quite spent, whose force can do no more.Now send forth hope, for now calm pity saves,And waft him to thee with those lovely eyes,A happy convoy to a holy land.Now show thy power, and where thy virtue lies;To save thine own, stretch out the fairest hand.Stretch out the fairest hand, a pledge of peace,That hand that darts so right and never misses;I shall forget old wrongs, my griefs shall cease;And that which gave me wounds, I'll give it kisses.Once let the ocean of my care find shore,That thou be pleased, and I may sigh no more.
Most fair and lovely maid, look from the shore,See thy Leander striving in these waves,Poor soul quite spent, whose force can do no more.Now send forth hope, for now calm pity saves,And waft him to thee with those lovely eyes,A happy convoy to a holy land.Now show thy power, and where thy virtue lies;To save thine own, stretch out the fairest hand.Stretch out the fairest hand, a pledge of peace,That hand that darts so right and never misses;I shall forget old wrongs, my griefs shall cease;And that which gave me wounds, I'll give it kisses.Once let the ocean of my care find shore,That thou be pleased, and I may sigh no more.
Read in my face a volume of despairs,The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe;Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares,Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so.Who whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack,Looking aloft from turret of her pride;There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sackOf her own seat, whereof I made her guide.There do these smokes that from affliction rise,Serve as an incense to a cruel dame;A sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes,Because their power serves to exact the same.Thus ruins she to satisfy her will,The temple where her name was honoured still.
Read in my face a volume of despairs,The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe;Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares,Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so.Who whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack,Looking aloft from turret of her pride;There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sackOf her own seat, whereof I made her guide.There do these smokes that from affliction rise,Serve as an incense to a cruel dame;A sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes,Because their power serves to exact the same.Thus ruins she to satisfy her will,The temple where her name was honoured still.
My Delia hath the waters of mine eyes,The ready handmaids on her grace t'attend,That never fail to ebb, but ever rise;For to their flow she never grants an end.The ocean never did attend more dulyUpon his sovereign's course, the night's pale queen,Nor paid the impost of his waves more truly,Than mine unto her cruelty hath been.Yet nought the rock of that hard heart can move,Where beat these tears with zeal, and fury drives;And yet, I'd rather languish in her love,Than I would joy the fairest she that lives.And if I find such pleasure to complain,What should I do then if I should obtain?
My Delia hath the waters of mine eyes,The ready handmaids on her grace t'attend,That never fail to ebb, but ever rise;For to their flow she never grants an end.The ocean never did attend more dulyUpon his sovereign's course, the night's pale queen,Nor paid the impost of his waves more truly,Than mine unto her cruelty hath been.Yet nought the rock of that hard heart can move,Where beat these tears with zeal, and fury drives;And yet, I'd rather languish in her love,Than I would joy the fairest she that lives.And if I find such pleasure to complain,What should I do then if I should obtain?
How long shall I in mine affliction mourn,A burden to myself, distressed in mind;When shall my interdicted hopes returnFrom out despair wherein they live confined?When shall her troubled brow charged with disdainReveal the treasure which her smiles impart?When shall my faith the happiness attain,To break the ice that hath congealed her heart?Unto herself, herself my love doth summon,(If love in her hath any power to move)And let her tell me, as she is a woman,Whether my faith hath not deserved her love?I know her heart cannot but judge with me,Although her eyes my adversaries be.
How long shall I in mine affliction mourn,A burden to myself, distressed in mind;When shall my interdicted hopes returnFrom out despair wherein they live confined?When shall her troubled brow charged with disdainReveal the treasure which her smiles impart?When shall my faith the happiness attain,To break the ice that hath congealed her heart?Unto herself, herself my love doth summon,(If love in her hath any power to move)And let her tell me, as she is a woman,Whether my faith hath not deserved her love?I know her heart cannot but judge with me,Although her eyes my adversaries be.
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time but till the sun doth show,And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose,The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burden of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,And that in beauty's lease expired appearsThe date of age, the kalends of our death,—But ah! no more, this must not be foretold,For women grieve to think they must be old.
Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time but till the sun doth show,And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose,The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burden of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,And that in beauty's lease expired appearsThe date of age, the kalends of our death,—But ah! no more, this must not be foretold,For women grieve to think they must be old.
I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have a time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.Ah sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither.And where the sweetest blossoms first appears,Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair,Pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise.Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have a time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.Ah sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither.And where the sweetest blossoms first appears,Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair,Pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise.Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
At the Author's going into Italy
Ah whither, poor forsaken, wilt thou go,To go from sorrow and thine own distress,When every place presents like face of woe,And no remove can make thy sorrows less!Yet go, forsaken! Leave these woods, these plains,Leave her and all, and all for her that leavesThee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains,And of both wrongful deems and ill conceives.Seek out some place, and see if any placeCan give the least release unto thy grief;Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace,Steal from thyself and be thy cares' own thief.But yet what comforts shall I hereby gain?Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain.
Ah whither, poor forsaken, wilt thou go,To go from sorrow and thine own distress,When every place presents like face of woe,And no remove can make thy sorrows less!Yet go, forsaken! Leave these woods, these plains,Leave her and all, and all for her that leavesThee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains,And of both wrongful deems and ill conceives.Seek out some place, and see if any placeCan give the least release unto thy grief;Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace,Steal from thyself and be thy cares' own thief.But yet what comforts shall I hereby gain?Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain.
This Sonnet was made at the Author's being in Italy
Drawn with th'attractive virtue of her eyes,My touched heart turns it to that happy coast,My joyful north, where all my fortune lies,The level of my hopes desirèd most;There where my Delia, fairer than the sun,Decked with her youth whereon the world doth smile,Joys in that honour which her eyes have won,Th'eternal wonder of our happy isle.Flourish, fair Albion, glory of the north!Neptune's best darling, held between his arms;Divided from the world as better worth,Kept for himself, defended from all harms!Still let disarmèd peace deck her and thee;And Muse-foe Mars abroad far fostered be!
Drawn with th'attractive virtue of her eyes,My touched heart turns it to that happy coast,My joyful north, where all my fortune lies,The level of my hopes desirèd most;There where my Delia, fairer than the sun,Decked with her youth whereon the world doth smile,Joys in that honour which her eyes have won,Th'eternal wonder of our happy isle.Flourish, fair Albion, glory of the north!Neptune's best darling, held between his arms;Divided from the world as better worth,Kept for himself, defended from all harms!Still let disarmèd peace deck her and thee;And Muse-foe Mars abroad far fostered be!
Care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night,Brother to death, in silent darkness born,Relieve my languish, and restore the light;With dark forgetting of my care return,And let the day be time enough to mournThe shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth;Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,Without the torment of the night's untruth.Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,To model forth the passions of the morrow;Never let rising sun approve you liars,To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow;Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
Care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night,Brother to death, in silent darkness born,Relieve my languish, and restore the light;With dark forgetting of my care return,And let the day be time enough to mournThe shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth;Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,Without the torment of the night's untruth.Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,To model forth the passions of the morrow;Never let rising sun approve you liars,To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow;Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
Let others sing of knights and paladins,In agèd accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary linesWhich well the reach of their high wits records;But I must sing of thee and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come,When yet th'unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies,Whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb!These are the arks, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the dark and time's consuming rage.Though th'error of my youth in them appear,Suffice, they show I lived and loved thee, dear.
Let others sing of knights and paladins,In agèd accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary linesWhich well the reach of their high wits records;But I must sing of thee and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come,When yet th'unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies,Whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb!These are the arks, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the dark and time's consuming rage.Though th'error of my youth in them appear,Suffice, they show I lived and loved thee, dear.
As to the Roman that would free his land,His error was his honour and renown;And more the fame of his mistaking handThan if he had the tyrant overthrown.So Delia, hath mine error made me known,And my deceived attempt deserved more fame,Than if had the victory mine own,And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.And so likewise renowned is thy blame;Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case,That errors should be graced that merit shame,And sin of frowns bring honour to the face.Yet happy Delia that thou wast unkind,Though happier far, if thou would'st change thy mind.
As to the Roman that would free his land,His error was his honour and renown;And more the fame of his mistaking handThan if he had the tyrant overthrown.So Delia, hath mine error made me known,And my deceived attempt deserved more fame,Than if had the victory mine own,And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.And so likewise renowned is thy blame;Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case,That errors should be graced that merit shame,And sin of frowns bring honour to the face.Yet happy Delia that thou wast unkind,Though happier far, if thou would'st change thy mind.
Like as the lute delights or else dislikesAs is his art that plays upon the same,So sounds my Muse according as she strikesOn my heart-strings high tuned unto her fame.Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,Which here I yield in lamentable wise,A wailing descant on the sweetest ground,Whose due reports give honour to her eyes;Else harsh my style, untunable my Muse;Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name;If any pleasing relish here I use,Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.For no ground else could make the music such,Nor other hand could give so sweet a touch.
Like as the lute delights or else dislikesAs is his art that plays upon the same,So sounds my Muse according as she strikesOn my heart-strings high tuned unto her fame.Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,Which here I yield in lamentable wise,A wailing descant on the sweetest ground,Whose due reports give honour to her eyes;Else harsh my style, untunable my Muse;Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name;If any pleasing relish here I use,Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.For no ground else could make the music such,Nor other hand could give so sweet a touch.
None other fame mine unambitious MuseAffected ever but t'eternise thee;All other honours do my hopes refuse,Which meaner prized and momentary be.For God forbid I should my papers blotWith mercenary lines with servile pen,Praising virtues in them that have them not,Basely attending on the hopes of men.No, no, my verse respects not Thames, nor theatres;Nor seeks it to be known unto the great;But Avon, poor in fame, and poor in waters,Shall have my song, where Delia hath her seat.Avon shall be my Thames, and she my song;No other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong.
None other fame mine unambitious MuseAffected ever but t'eternise thee;All other honours do my hopes refuse,Which meaner prized and momentary be.For God forbid I should my papers blotWith mercenary lines with servile pen,Praising virtues in them that have them not,Basely attending on the hopes of men.No, no, my verse respects not Thames, nor theatres;Nor seeks it to be known unto the great;But Avon, poor in fame, and poor in waters,Shall have my song, where Delia hath her seat.Avon shall be my Thames, and she my song;No other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong.
Unhappy pen, and ill-accepted linesThat intimate in vain my chaste desire,My chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shines,Enkindled by her eyes' celestial fire;Celestial fire, and unrespecting powersWhich pity not the wounds made by their might,Showed in these lines, the work of careful hours,The sacrifice here offered to her sight.But since she weighs them not, this rests for me:I'll moan myself, and hide the wrong I have,And so content me that her frowns should beTo m'infant style the cradle and the grave.What though my Muse no honour get thereby;Each bird sings to herself, and so will I.
Unhappy pen, and ill-accepted linesThat intimate in vain my chaste desire,My chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shines,Enkindled by her eyes' celestial fire;Celestial fire, and unrespecting powersWhich pity not the wounds made by their might,Showed in these lines, the work of careful hours,The sacrifice here offered to her sight.But since she weighs them not, this rests for me:I'll moan myself, and hide the wrong I have,And so content me that her frowns should beTo m'infant style the cradle and the grave.What though my Muse no honour get thereby;Each bird sings to herself, and so will I.
Lo here the impost of a faith entire,That love doth pay, and her disdain extorts;Behold the message of a chaste desireThat tells the world how much my grief imports.These tributary passions, beauty's due,I send those eyes, the cabinets of love;That cruelty herself might grieve to viewTh'affliction her unkind disdain doth move.And how I live, cast down from off all mirth,Pensive, alone, only but with despair;My joys abortive perish in their birth,My griefs long-lived and care succeeding care.This is my state, and Delia's heart is such;I say no more, I fear I said too much.
Lo here the impost of a faith entire,That love doth pay, and her disdain extorts;Behold the message of a chaste desireThat tells the world how much my grief imports.These tributary passions, beauty's due,I send those eyes, the cabinets of love;That cruelty herself might grieve to viewTh'affliction her unkind disdain doth move.And how I live, cast down from off all mirth,Pensive, alone, only but with despair;My joys abortive perish in their birth,My griefs long-lived and care succeeding care.This is my state, and Delia's heart is such;I say no more, I fear I said too much.
[The following four sonnets were Numbers 3, 10, 12 and 16 in Newman's edition of 1591. They do not appear in any other editions.]
The only bird alone that nature frames,When weary of the tedious life she lives,By fire dies, yet finds new life in flames,Her ashes to her shape new essence gives.When only I, the only wretched wight,Weary of life that breathes but sorrow's blast,Pursue the flame of such a beauty bright,That burns my heart, and yet my life still lasts.O sovereign light, that with thy sacred flameConsumes my life, revive me after this!And make me, with the happy bird, the sameThat dies to live, by favour of thy bliss!This deed of thine will show a goddess' power,In so long death to grant one living hour.
The only bird alone that nature frames,When weary of the tedious life she lives,By fire dies, yet finds new life in flames,Her ashes to her shape new essence gives.When only I, the only wretched wight,Weary of life that breathes but sorrow's blast,Pursue the flame of such a beauty bright,That burns my heart, and yet my life still lasts.O sovereign light, that with thy sacred flameConsumes my life, revive me after this!And make me, with the happy bird, the sameThat dies to live, by favour of thy bliss!This deed of thine will show a goddess' power,In so long death to grant one living hour.
The sly enchanter when to work his willAnd secret wrong on some forespoken wight,Frames wax in form to represent arightThe poor unwitting wretch he means to kill,And pricks the image framed by magic's skill,Whereby to vex the party day and night;Like hath she done, whose show bewitched my sightTo beauty's charms, her lover's blood to spill.For first, like wax she framed me by her eyes,Whose rays sharp-pointed set upon my breastMartyr my life and plague me in this wiseWith ling'ring pain to perish in unrest.Nought could, save this, my sweetest fair suffice,To try her art on him that loves her best.
The sly enchanter when to work his willAnd secret wrong on some forespoken wight,Frames wax in form to represent arightThe poor unwitting wretch he means to kill,And pricks the image framed by magic's skill,Whereby to vex the party day and night;Like hath she done, whose show bewitched my sightTo beauty's charms, her lover's blood to spill.For first, like wax she framed me by her eyes,Whose rays sharp-pointed set upon my breastMartyr my life and plague me in this wiseWith ling'ring pain to perish in unrest.Nought could, save this, my sweetest fair suffice,To try her art on him that loves her best.
The tablet of my heavy fortunes hereUpon thine altar, Paphian Power, I place.The grievous shipwreck of my travels dearIn bulgèd bark, all perished in disgrace.That traitor Love was pilot to my woe;My sails were hope, spread with my sighs of grief;The twin lights which my hapless course did showHard by th'inconstant sands of false relief,Were two bright stars which led my view apart.A siren's voice allured me come so nearTo perish on the marble of her heart,A danger which my soul did never fear.Lo, thus he fares that trusts a calm too much;And thus fare I whose credit hath been such!
The tablet of my heavy fortunes hereUpon thine altar, Paphian Power, I place.The grievous shipwreck of my travels dearIn bulgèd bark, all perished in disgrace.That traitor Love was pilot to my woe;My sails were hope, spread with my sighs of grief;The twin lights which my hapless course did showHard by th'inconstant sands of false relief,Were two bright stars which led my view apart.A siren's voice allured me come so nearTo perish on the marble of her heart,A danger which my soul did never fear.Lo, thus he fares that trusts a calm too much;And thus fare I whose credit hath been such!
Weigh but the cause, and give me leave to plain me,For all my hurt, that my heart's queen hath wrought it;She whom I love so dear, the more to pain me,Withholds my right where I have dearly bought it.Dearly I bought that was so slightly rated,Even with the price of blood and body's wasting;She would not yield that ought might be abated,For all she saw my love was pure and lasting,And yet now scorns performance of the passion,And with her presence justice overruleth.She tells me flat her beauty bears no action;And so my plea and process she excludeth.What wrong she doth, the world may well perceive it,To accept my faith at first, and then to leave it.
Weigh but the cause, and give me leave to plain me,For all my hurt, that my heart's queen hath wrought it;She whom I love so dear, the more to pain me,Withholds my right where I have dearly bought it.Dearly I bought that was so slightly rated,Even with the price of blood and body's wasting;She would not yield that ought might be abated,For all she saw my love was pure and lasting,And yet now scorns performance of the passion,And with her presence justice overruleth.She tells me flat her beauty bears no action;And so my plea and process she excludeth.What wrong she doth, the world may well perceive it,To accept my faith at first, and then to leave it.
[This sonnet was Number 8 in Newman's edition of 1591, is found in the editions of '92 and '94, but was omitted thereafter.]
Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have venturedTo stop the passage of my vanquished heart;And shut those ways my friendly foe first entered,Hoping thereby to free my better part.And whilst I guard the windows of this fort,Where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice,And thither all my forces do transport,Another passage opens at her voice.Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye,My freedom's tyrant, conquering all by art;But ah! what glory can she get thereby,With three such powers to plague one silly heart!Yet my soul's sovereign, since I must resign,Reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine!
Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have venturedTo stop the passage of my vanquished heart;And shut those ways my friendly foe first entered,Hoping thereby to free my better part.And whilst I guard the windows of this fort,Where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice,And thither all my forces do transport,Another passage opens at her voice.Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye,My freedom's tyrant, conquering all by art;But ah! what glory can she get thereby,With three such powers to plague one silly heart!Yet my soul's sovereign, since I must resign,Reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine!
[The following two sonnets appear for the first time in the second edition of 1592, where they are marked 31 and 30, the 30 being evidently a misprint for 32. They are not found in later editions.]