SONNET S. TO DELIA. I. Go, wailing verfe, the infants of my love; And flarved you, in fuccours ftill denying: Prefs to her eyes, importune me some good; Waken her fleeping pity with your crying: Knock at her hard heart; beg till y' have mov'd her; And tell th' unkind how dearly I have lov'd her. III. If it fo hap, this off'spring of my care, Thefe fatal anthems, lamentable fongs, But untouch'd hearts, with unaffected eye, You blinded fouls, whom youth and error lead You out-caft eaglers, dazzled with your fun Do you, and none but you, my forrows read You beft can judge the wrongs that she h done. That she hath done !—the motive of my pain: Who, whilft I love, doth kill me with difdain. IV. THESE plaintive verfe, the pofts of my defire, Which hafte for fuccour to her flow regard, Bear not report of any flender fire; Forging a grief, to win a fame's reward. Nor are my paflions limn'd for outward hue, For that no colours can depaint my forrows Delia herself, and all the world may view Beft in my face, where cares have till'd d furrows. No bays I feek to deck my mourning brow, O clear-ey'd rector of the holy hill' My humble accents bear the olive bough Of interceffion, but to move her will. Thefe lines I ufe, t' unburden mine own heart My love affects no fame, nor fteams of art. V. WHILST youth and error led my wand'ring m death. Thofe that I fofter'd of mine own accord, And made by her to murder thus their lord. VI. FAIR is my love, and cruel as fhe's fair; [fur Her brow-fhades frowns, although her eye Her fmiles are lightning, though her pride defpair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. A modeft maid, deck'd with a blush of honour; Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love! The wonder of all eyes that look upon her: Sacred on earth; defign'd a faint above! Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow: And had the pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? For had the not been fair, and thus unkind, My mufe had flept, and none had known my mind. VII. FOR had the not been fair, and thus unkind, Then had no cenfor's eye thefe lines furvey'd, Nor graver brows have judg'd my mufe so vain: No fun my blush and error had bewray'd, Nor yet the world have heard of such disdain. Then had I walk'd with bold erected face; No down-cast look had fignify'd my mifs: But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace, Did force me groan out griefs, and utter this. For being full, fhould I not then have spoken. My fenfe opprefs'd had fail'd, and heart had broken. VIII. THOυ poor heart, facrific'd unto the fairest, And made thy paffions with her beauty even. And you, mine eyes, the agents of my heart, Told the dumb meffage of my hidden grief; Have follow'd hard the process of my cafe; Yet though I fee that nought we do can move; 'Tis no: difdain muft make me ceafe to love. IX. If this be love, to draw a weary breath, Paint on floods, till the fhore cry to th' air; With downward looks, ftill reading on the earth, These fad memorials of my love's despair: If this be love to war against my foul, Lie down to wail, rife up to figh and grieve; The never-refting ftone of care to roll; Still to complain my griefs, whilft none relieve. If this be love to clothe me with dark thoughts, Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart; My pleasure's horror, mufic tragic notes; Tears in mine eyes, and forrow at my heart. If this be love, to live a living death; Then do I love, and draw this weary breath. TEARS, vows, and prayers, win the hardest heart: Tears, vows, and prayers, have I spent in vain? Tears cannot foften flint, nor vows convert; I lose my tears, where I have loft my love; So rare a faith ought better be rewarded. XII. Mr fpotlefs love hovers with pureft wings, M'ambitious thoughts confined in her face, Holds in her faireft hand what dearest is ; XIII. BEHOLD what hap Pigmalion had to frame, And carve his proper grief upon a Яtone ! My heavy fortune is much like the same; I work on flint, and that's the cause I moan: For hapless, lo! ev'n with mine own defires, I figur'd on the table of mine heart, The fairest form that all the world admires; And fo did perish by my proper art. And ftill I toil, to change the marble breast Of her, whose sweetest grace I do adore;. Yet cannot find her breathe unto my rest: Hard is her heart; and woe is me therefor! But happy he, that joy'd his ftone and art: Unhappy I, to love a stony heart, XIV. THOSE fnary locks, are thofe fame nets (my dear) Deep is the wound, my fighs can well report: And lift not feek to break, to quench, to heal XV. Is that a loyal heart and faith unfeign'd, If a sweet languish, with a chafte defire; If hunger-starven thoughts, fo long retain'd, Fed but with smoke, and cherish'd but with fire: And if a brow with care's characters painted, Bewrays my love with broken words half spoken, To her that fits in my thoughts temple fainted, And lays to view my vulture-gnawn heart open: If I have done due homage to her eyes, And had my fighs ftill tending on her name; Let this fuffice, that all the world may fee XVI. HAPPY in fleep, waking content to languish; Embracing clouds by night, in day-time mourn; My joys but fhadows, touch of truth my anguish : Griefs ever fpringing, comforts never born. And still expecting when she will relent; Grown hoarfe with crying mercy, mercy give: So many vows and prayers having spent, That weary of my life, I loath to live. And yet the Hydra of my cares renews Still new-born forrows of her fresh disdain; And still my hope the fummer winds pursues, Finding no end or period of my pain. This is my state my griefs do touch fo nearly; And thus I live, because I love her dearly. XVII. WHY fhould I fing in verfe; why fhould I frame vour Such honour unto cruelty to give ; SINCE the first look that led me to this error, So true and loyal love no favour gains me. XIX. RESTORE thy treffes to the golden ore; Yield Citherea's fon, thofe arks of love: Bequeath the heav'ns the stars that I adore And to th' orient do thy pearls remove. Yield thy hands pride unto the ivory white; T' Arabian odors give thy breathing sweet: Reftore thy blufh unto Aurora bright; To Thetis give the honour of thy feet. Let Venus have thy graces, her refign'd; And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres: But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind To Hyrcan tygers, and to ruthless bears. Yield to the marble thy hard heart again; So fhalt 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 Wish to be prefent, and yet fhunt' appear: [ftrife; 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 ftrong, a body weak. Never to find, and evermore to seek: And feek that which I dare not hope to find. T'affect this-life, and yet this life dislike; Grateful t' another, to myself unkind. This cruel knowledge of these contraries, Delia, my heart hath learn'd out of those eyes. XXI. Ir beauty thus be clouded with a frown, If I have lov'd her dearer than my breath, XXII. COME, time, the anchor-hold of my defire, Pow'r from thofe eyes, which pity cannot fpare: XXIII. TIME, cruel time, come and subdue that brow, Cares not for thee, but lets thee waste in vain; XXIV. THESE forrow'ng fighs, the smoke of mine annoy; Thefe tears which heat of facred flame diftils; Are thofe due tributes, that my faith doth pay Unto the tyrant, whofe unkindness kills. 1 facrifice my youth and blooming years At her proud feet, and the respects not it; My flow'r untimely's wither'd with my tears; And winter woes, for fpring of youth unfit. She thinks a look may recompenfe my care, And fo with looks prolongs my long-look'd cafe : As fhort that blifs, fo is the comfort rare; Yet must that blifs my hungry thoughts appease. Thus the returns my hopes fo fruitless ever; Once let her love indeed, or elfe look never. XXV. FALSE hope prolongs my ever certain grief; Thus often as I chafe my hope from me, Straightway she hastes her unto Delia's eyes; Fed with some pleasing look there shall she bè, And so fent back, and thus my fortune lies. Looks feed my hope; hope fosters me in vain. Hopes are unfure, when certain is my pain. XXVI. Look on my griefs, and blame me not to mourn, XXVII. REIGN in my thoughts, fair hand, fweet eye, rare voice: Poffefs me whole, my heart's triumverate: Yet heavy heart to make so hard a choice, Of fuch as spoil thy poor afflicted state. For whilst they ftrive which fhall be lord of all, All my poor life by them is trodden down; They all ered their trophies on my fall, And yield me nought that gives them their reWhen back I look, I figh my freedom past, [nown, And wail the state wherein I present stand; And fee my fortune ever like to laft, Finding me rein'd with such a heavy hand. What can I do but yield-And yield I do, And ferve all three; and yet they spoil me too. XXVIII. Alluding to the Sparrow, perfued by a Hawk, that fir into the Bofom of Zenocrates. [bleft, WHILST by thy eyes purfu'd, my poor heart flew No lightning looks which falling hopes erect; OFT do I marvel, whether Delia's eyes Whose influ'nce rule the orb of my poor heart? THE ftar of my mishap impos'd this pain, That makes me fall from off my high defire. No pitying eye looks back upon my fears: No fuccour find I now, when I most need, My heats muft down in th' ocean of my tears: Which ftill must bear the title of my wrong, Caus'd by thofe cruel beams that were fo ftrong. XXXII. AND yet I cannot reprehend the flight, Or blame th' attempt prefuming fo to foar; 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 fhore? Danger hath honour; great defigns their fame: Glory doth follow; courage goes before. And though th' event oft anfwers not the fame, Suffice that high attempts have never shame. The mean obferver, whom base fafety keeps, Lives without honour, dies without a name, And in eternal darkness ever fleeps. And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot, To have attempted, though attain'd thee not. XXXIII. RAISING my hopes on hills of high defire, Thinking to fcale the heaven of her heart, My Blender means prefum'd too high a part; Her thunder of difdain forc'd me t' retire, And threw me down to pain in all this fire; Was not to difpoffefs her of her right; XXXIV. WHY doft thou, Delia, credit fo thy glass, The fury of a mercy-wanting ftorm: XXXV. I ONCE may fee when years shall wreck my wrong. XXXVI. Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rofe, But ftrait her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; |