Chapter 2

Why should I sing in verse? Why should I frame These sad neglected notes for her dear sake? Why should I offer up unto her name, The sweetest sacrifice my youth can make? Why should I strive to make her live for ever, That never deigns to give me joy to live? Why should m'afflicted Muse so much endeavour Such honour unto cruelty to give? If her defects have purchased her this fame, What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love? If this her worst, how should her best inflame? What passions would her milder favours move? Favours, I think, would sense quite overcome; And that makes happy lovers ever dumb.

XVIII

Since the first look that led me to this error, To this thoughts' maze to my confusion tending, Still have I lived in grief, in hope, in terror, The circle of my sorrows never ending; Yet cannot leave her love that holds me hateful; Her eyes exact it, though her heart disdains me. See what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful? So true and loyal love no favour gains me. Still must I whet my young desires abated, Upon the flint of such a heart rebelling; And all in vain; her pride is so innated, She yields no place at all for pity's dwelling. Oft have I told her that my soul did love her, And that with tears; yet all this will not move her.

XIX

Restore thy tresses to the golden ore, Yield Cytherea's son those arks of love; Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore, And to the orient do thy pearls remove; Yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white; T'Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet; Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright; To Thetis give the honour of thy feet. Let Venus have the graces she resigned, And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres; But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears; Yield to the marble thy hard heart again; So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain.

XX

What it is to breathe and live without life; How to be pale with anguish, red with fear, T'have peace abroad, and nought within but strife: Wish to be present, and yet shun t'appear; How to be bold far off, and bashful near; How to think much, and have no words to speak; To crave redress, yet hold affliction dear; To have affection strong, a body weak, Never to find, yet evermore to seek; And seek that which I dare not hope to find; T'affect this life and yet this life disleek, Grateful t'another, to myself unkind: This cruel knowledge of these contraries, Delia, my heart hath learned out of those eyes.

XXI

If beauty thus be clouded with a frown, That pity shines no comfort to my bliss, And vapours of disdain so overgrown, That my life's light wholly indarkened is, Why should I more molest the world with cries, The air with sighs, the earth below with tears, Since I live hateful to those ruthful eyes, Vexing with untuned moan her dainty ears! If I have loved her dearer than my breath, My breath that calls the heaven to witness it!-- And still hold her most dear until my death, And if that all this cannot move one whit, Yet sure she cannot but must think apart She doth me wrong to grieve so true a heart.

XXII

Come Time, the anchor hold of my desire, My last resort whereto my hopes appeal; Cause once the date of her disdain t'exspire, Make her the sentence of her wrath repeal. Rob her fair brow, break in on beauty, steal Power from those eyes which pity cannot spare; Deal with those dainty cheeks, as she doth deal With this poor heart consumèd with despair. This heart made now the pròspective of care By loving her, the cruelst fair that lives, The cruelst fair that sees I pine for her, And never mercy to thy merit gives. Let her not still triumph over the prize Of mine affections taken by her eyes.

XXIII

Time, cruel Time, come and subdue that brow Which conquers all but thee, and thee too stays, As if she were exempt from scythe or bow, From love or years unsubject to decays. Or art thou grown in league with those fair eyes, That they may help thee to consume our days? Or dost thou spare her for her cruelties, Being merciless like thee that no man weighs? And yet thou seest thy power she disobeys, Cares not for thee, but lets thee waste in vain, And prodigal of hours and years betrays Beauty and youth t'opinion and disdain. Yet spare her, Time; let her exempted be; She may become more kind to thee or me.

XXIV

These sorrowing sighs, the smoke of mine annoy, These tears, which heat of sacred flame distils, Are those due tributes that my faith doth pay Unto the tyrant whose unkindness kills. I sacrifice my youth and blooming years At her proud feet, and she respects not it; My flower, untimely's withered with my tears, By winter woes for spring of youth unfit. She thinks a look may recompense my care, And so with looks prolongs my long-looked ease; As short that bliss, so is the comfort rare; Yet must that bliss my hungry thoughts appease. Thus she returns my hopes so fruitless ever; Once let her love indeed, or eye me never!

XXV

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.

XXVI

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.

XXVII

Reignin my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice! Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate! Yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choice Of 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!

XXVIII

_Alluding to the sparrow pursued by a hawk, that flew into the bosom of Zenocrates_

Whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flew Into the sacred refuge of thy breast; Thy rigour in that sanctuary slew That 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.

XXIX

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 fulfil The work of rigour, fatally begun Upon 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.

XXX

Oft do I marvel whether Delia's eyes Are eyes, or else two radiant stars that shine; For how could nature ever thus devise Of 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 stray In endless errors whence I cannot part. Stars, then, not eyes, move you with milder view Your sweet aspect on him that honours you!

XXXI

The star of my mishap imposed this pain To 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 sun That 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.

XXXII

And yet I cannot reprehend the flight, Or blame th'attempt, presuming so to soar; The mounting venture for a high delight Did 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 blot To have attempted though attained thee not.

XXXIII

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 smart Because th'attempt was far above my art; Her pride brooked not poor souls should come so nigh her. Yet, I protest, my high desiring will Was 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.

XXXIV

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 declare The fury of a mercy-wanting storm; And of what force thy wounding graces are Upon 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.

XXXV

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 phoenix-like shall make her live anew.

XXXVI

Look, Delia, how w'esteem the half-blown rose, The image of thy blush, and summer's honour, Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That 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.

XXXVII

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.

XXXVIII

When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, And thou with careful brow sitting alone Receivèd hast this message from thy glass That 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.

XXXIX

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.

XL

Thou canst not die whilst any zeal abound In 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!

XLI

Be not displeased that these my papers should Bewray unto the world how fair thou art; Or that my wits have showed the best they could The 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 name Shall 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 redeemed Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness. Although my careful accents never moved thee, Yet count it no disgrace that I loved thee.

XLII

Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine, Have seen those walls which proud ambition reared To check the world, how they entombed have lain Within themselves, and on them ploughs have eared; Yet never found that barbarous hand attained The spoil of fame deserved by virtuous men, Whose glorious actions luckily had gained Th'eternal annals of a happy pen. And therefore grieve not if thy beauties die Though time do spoil thee of the fairest veil That 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.

XLIII

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.

XLIV

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 sack Of 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.

XLV

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 duly Upon 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?

XLVI

How long shall I in mine affliction mourn, A burden to myself, distressed in mind; When shall my interdicted hopes return From out despair wherein they live confined? When shall her troubled brow charged with disdain Reveal 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.

XLVII

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers 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 appears The 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.

XLVIII

I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Lines 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!

XLIX

_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 leaves Thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains, And of both wrongful deems and ill conceives. Seek out some place, and see if any place Can 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.

L

_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!

LI