Sivut kuvina


SONNET VII. If it so hap, this offspring of my care,

For bad she not been fair, and thus unkind, These fatal anthems, lamentable songs,

Then had no finger pointed at my lightness; Come to their view who like afflicted are; The world had never known what I do find, Let them sigh for their own, and moan my wrongs, And clouds obscure had shaded still her brightnes But untouch'd hearts, with unaffected eye, Then had no censor's eye these lines surveç'd, Approach not to behold my heaviness :

Nor graver brows have judg'd my Mase so van: Clear-sighted, you soon note what is awry; No sun my blush and errour had bewray'd, Whilst blinded souls mine errouss never guess : Nor yet the world have heard of such disdain, You blinded souls, whom youth and errour lead! Then had I walk'd with bold erected face; You out-cast eaglers, dazzled with your sun ! No down-cast look bad signify'd my miss: Do you, and none but you, my sorrows read; But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace, You best can judge the wrongs that she hath done. Did force me groan out griefs, and utter this That she hath done!--the motive of my pain : For being full, should I not then have spoken, Who whilst I love, doth kill me with disdain. My sense oppress'd had fail'd, and heart had broka.


These plaintive verse, the posts of my desire, Thou, poor heart, sacrific'd unto the fairest,
Which haste for succour to her slow regard, Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to Hear'ı;
Bear not report of any slender fire;

And still against her frowns fresh vows repairest, Forging a grief, to win a fame's reward.

And made thy passions with her beauty even
Nor are my passions limn'd for outward hue, And you, mine eyes, the agents of my beart,
For that no colours can depaint my sorrows: Told the dumb message of my hidden grief;
Delia herself, and all the world may view [rows. And oft with careful turns, with silent art,
Best in my face, where cares have tillid deep fur- Did treat the cruel fair to yield relief.
No bays I seek to deck my mourning brow, And, you, my verse, the advocates of love,
O clear-ey'd rector of the holy hill!

Have follow'd hard the process of my case;
My humble accents bear the olive bough

And 'urg'd that title which doth plainly prove, Of intercession, but to move her will.

My faith should win, if justice might have piace. These lines I use, t' unburthen mine own heart; Yet though I see that pought we do can move; My love affects po fame, nor steams of art. 'T is not disdain must make me cease to love.


Whilst youth and errour led my wand'ring mind, If this be love, to draw a weary breath,
And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range, Paint on foods, till the shore cry to th' air;
All unawares a goddess chaste I find,

With do oward looks, still reading on tbe earth, (Diana-like) to work my sudden change.

These sad memorials of my love's despair:
For her no sooner had mine eyes bewray'd, If this be love to war against my soul,
But with disdain to see me in that place,

Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve;
With fairest hand the sweet unkindest maid, The never-resting stone of care to roll;
Cast water-cold disdain upon my face.

Still to complain my griefs, whilst pone relieve.
Which turn'd my sport into a heart's despair, If this be love to clothe me with dark thoughts,
Which still is chas'd while I have any breath, Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart;
By mine own thoughts, set on me by my fair : My pleasure's horrour, music tragic potes;
My thoughts, like hounds, pursue me to my death. | Tears in mine eyes, and sorrow at my heart.
Those that I foster'd of mine own accord,

If this be love, to live a living death;
Are made by her to murther thus their lord. Then do I love, and draw this weary breatb.


SONNET X. Fair is my love, and cruel as she 's fair; (sunny; Tyen do I love, and draw this weary breath Her brow-shades frowns, although her eyes are For her the cruel fair; within whose brow, Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; I written find the sentence of my death And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. In unkind letters, wrote she cares not bow. A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour; Thou pow'r that rul'st the confines of the night, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love! Laughter-loving goddess, world!y pleasure's queen, The wonder of all eyes that look upon her: Intenerate that heart that sets so light; Sacred on Earth; design'd a saint above! The truest love that ever yet was seen! Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes, And cause her leave to triumph in tbis wise, Live reconciled friends within ber brow;

Upon the prostrate spoil of that poor heart, And had she pity to conjoin with those;

That serves a trophy to ber conqu’ring eyes; Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? And must their glory to the world impart. For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, Once let her know sh’hath done enough to prove me ; My Muse had slept, and none bad known my mind. And let her pity, if she cannot love me.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

AVOTR TEARS, Vows, and prayers, win the hardest heart:
wanne Tears, vows, and prayers, bave I spent in vain!
by others Prayers prevail not with a quaint disdain.

Tears cannot soften dint, nor vows convert;
I lose my tears, where I have lost my love;
I vow my faith, where faith is not regarded;
I pray in vain, a merciless to move:

So rare a faith ought better be rewarded.
*** 7. Though my soul's idol scorneth all my vows;

Yet though I cannot winner will with tears,
saudi a4 Though all my pray’rs be to so deaf ears,
* No favour though the cruel fair allows;

Yet will I weep, vow, pray to cruel she :
Flint, frost, disdain, wears, melts, and yields we see.

If that a loyal heart and faith unfeign'd,
If a sweet languish, with a chaste desire;
If hunger-starven thoughts, so 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 sits in my thought's temple sainted,
And lays to view my vulture-gnawn heart open :
If I have done due homage to her eyes,
And had my sighs still tending on her name;
If on her lore my life and honour lies,
And she (th’unkindest maid) still scorns the same:
Let this suffice, that all the world may see
The fault is her's, though mine the hurt must be.

[ocr errors]


SONNET XVI. Nene i My spotless love hovers with purest wings

Happy in sleep, waking content to languish; att About the temple of the proudest frame;

Embracing clouds by night, in day-time mourn; Where blaze those lights fairest of earthly things, My joys but shadows, touch of truth my anguish :

. Griefs ever springing, comforts never born. M' ambitious thoughts confined in her face,

And still expecting when she will relent; erde Affect no honour, but what she can give:

Grown hoarse with crying mercy, mercy give: Crud faste! My hopes do rest in limits of her grace,

So many vows and prayers having spent, verse I weigh no comfort, unless she relieve,

That weary of my life, I loath to live. bard tove prosa For she that can my heart imparadise,

And yet the hydra of my cares renew3 trile vor s Holds in her fairest band what dearest is;

Still new-born sorrows of her fresh disdain ;
My fortune's wheels the circle of her eyes,

And still my hopes the summer-winds pursues,
Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss. Finding no end nor period of my pain.
Last Date All my life's sweet consists in her alone;

This is my state my griefs do touch so nearly; So much I love the most unloving one.

And thus I live, because I love her dearly.

[ocr errors]


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

Benold what hap Pigmalion bad to frame,
And carve his proper grief upon a stone!
My heavy fortune is much like the same;
I work on Alint, and that's the cause I moan.

For hapless, lo! er'n with mine own desires,

I figur'd on the table of mine heart,
2 uy te rig. The fairest form that all the world admires ;

And so did perish by my proper art.
And still I toil, to change the marble breast

Of ber, whose sweetest grace I do adore; eres, and me

Yet cannot find her breathe unto my rest :
Hard is her heart; and woe is me therefore !
But happy he, that joy'd his stone and art:
Unhappy I, to love a stony beart.

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 ber live for ever,
That never deigns to give me joy to live?
Why should m'afficted Muse so much endeavour
Such honour unto cruelty to give?
If her defects have purchas'd her this fame,
What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love?
If this ber 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.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]


Those snary locks, are those same nets (my dear)
Wherewith my liberty thou did'st surprise ;
Love was the Game that fired me so near,
The dart transpiercing were those crystal eyes :
Strong is the net, and fervent is the flame;
Deep is the wound, my sighs can well report:
Yet do I love, adore, and praise the same,
That holds, that burtis, that wounds me in this sort:
And list not seek to break, to quench, to heal
The bond, the faine, the wound that fest'reth so;
By knife, by liquor, or by salve to deal:
So much I please to perish in my woe.
Yet lest long travels be above my strength,
Good Delia lose, quench, heal me now at length.

Since the first look that led me to this errour,
To this thought's maze, to my confusion tending ;
Still have I liv'd in grief, in hope, in terrour,
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.

and dents



that are

mate sporld they ophy Biber

orgt dat

[ocr errors]

U la AI

An Se li

OF Are For Of Sta And The Tha



In e




Reign in my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare Tut star of my mishap impos'd this pain,
Bet Case, Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate: [voice; to spend the April of my years in grief ;
But iram.Yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choice, Finding my fortune ever in the wain,
uber of such as spoil thy poor afflicted state.

With still fresh cares, supply'd with no-relief.
En lege es for whilst they strive which shall be lord of all, Yet thee I blame not, though for thee 't is done:

the near All my poor life by them is trodden down; But these weak wings presaming to aspire,
ber ter beru They all erect their trophies on my fall,

Which pow are melted by thine eyes' bright sun, e the distanAnd yield me nought that gives them their renown. That makes me fall from off my high desire.

thy panWhen back I look, I sigh my freedom past, And in my fall I cry for help with speed, boat les insAnd wail the state wherein i present stand; No pitying eye looks back upon my fears: IN and 12 And see my fortune ever like to last,

No succour find I now, when I most need, - opinho mafinding me rein'd with such a heavy hand. My heats must drown in th' ocean of my tears: e; let her as What can I do but yield ?--And yield I do, Which still must bear the title of my wrong, exte ko. And serve all three; and yet they spoil me too. Caus'd by those cruel beams that were so strong.

[ocr errors]


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]



And yet I cannot reprehend the flight,

Or blame th' attempt presuming so to soar;
Whilst by thy eyes pursu'd, my poor heart few
Les that into the sacred refuge of thy breast;

The mounting venture for a high delight,

Did make the houour of the fall the more. Thy rigour in that sanctuary slew and bike That, which thy succ'ring mercy should have bless'd. For who gets wealth, that puts not from tbe shore? and the map o privilege of faith could it protect,

Danger hath honour; great designs their fame: witheri vtizaith b'ing with blood, and five years witness sign’d, And though th' event oft answers not the same,

Glory doth follow; courage goes before. spring st ni Vherein no show gave cause of least suspect ; ay microor well thou saw'st my love, and how I pin'd.

Suffice that high attempts have never shame. loosoleret no mild comfort would thy brow reveal,

The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,

Lives without honour, dies without a name, is the questo lightning looks which falling hopes erect;

And in eternal darkness ever sleeps. y hung Nhat boots to laws of succour to appeal?

And therefore, Delia, 't is to me no blot, brpes auteur adies and tyrants never laws respect

To have attempted, though attain'd thee not. Beed, arek When there I die, from whence my life should come;

And by that hand whom such deeds ill become.


[ocr errors]


[ocr errors]

ne bar trata

ber best out ber

Prill in the trace of one perplexed thought,
Ay ceaseless cares continually run on;

Seeking in vain what I have ever sought,
fect Ironne in my love, and her hard heart still one.
no truth who did never joy in other sun,

ind have no stars but those that must falfil
"he work rigour, fatally begun

pon this heart, whom cruelty will kill.
top bope Falajurious Delia, yet I love thee still;
her nd will whilst I shall draw this breath of mine :

'll tell the world, that I desert'd but ill, ther or traind blame myself t excuse that heart of thine. hope key ee then who sins the greater of us twain ;

certain ser in my love, or thou in thy disdain.

Ratsing my hopes on hills of high desire,
Thinking to scale the Heaven of her heart,
My slender means presum'd too high a part;
Her thunder of disdain forc'd me tretire,
And threw me down to pain iu all this fire;
Where lo I languish in so heavy smart,
Because th' attempt was far above my art:
Her pride brook'd not poor souls should so aspire.
Yet I protest, my high-desiring will
Was not to dispossess her of her right;
Her sov'reigoty should have remained still;
I only sought the bliss to have her sight.
Her sight contented thus to see me spill,
Fram'd my desires At for her eyes to kiit."

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]


FT do I marvel, whether Delia's eyes

Way dost thou, Delia, credit so thy glass,
re eyes; or else two radiant stars that shine! Gazing tby beauty deigo'd thee by the skies:
or how could Nature ever thus devise

And dost not rather look on bim, (alas !) [eyes? bores lobe of earth (on Earth) a substance so divine ? Whose state best shows the force of murd'ring

tars sure they are, whose motions rule desires; The broken tops of lofty trees declare ir be cores end calm and tempest follow their aspects: The fury of a mercy-wanting storm; phone nofheir sweet appearing still such pow'r inspires, And of what force thy wounding graces are,

hat makes the world admire so strange effects : Upon myself thou best may'st find the form.

et whether fix'd or wand'ring stars are they, Then leave thy glass, and gaze thyself on me; rox vice hose infu'nce rule the orb of my poor heart?

That mirrour shows what pow'r is in thy face : Implant onlix'd sure they are; but wandring make me stray To view your form too much, may danger be; ontdh endless errours, whence I cannot part.

Narcissus chang'd a flower in such a case. d blanears then, not eyes, move you with milder view, And you are chang'd, but not a hyacint :

our sweet aspect on bim that honours you. I fear your eye hath turn'd your heart to fint. setur . VOL. JIL


[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

the work at


SONNET XXXIX. I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong, Wuen wiuter snows upon thy sable hairs, When golden hairs shall change to silver wire; And frost of age hath nipt thy beauties near; And those bright rays that kindle all this fire, When dark shall seem thy day that never clears, Shall fail in force, their working not so strong: And all lies wither'd that was held so dear: Then Beauty, (now the burthen of my song) Then take this picture which I here present thee, Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire, Limned with a pencil not all unworthy: Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire ; Here see the gifts that God and Nature lent thet ; Then fade those flow'rs that deck'd her pride so long. Here read thyself, and what I suffer'd for thee. When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass, This may remain thy lasting monument, Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue; Which happily posterity may cherisb; Go you, my verse; go tell her what she was:

These colours with thy fading are not spent: For what she was, she best shall find in you. These may remain, when thou and I shall perish. Your fi'ry heat lets not ber glory pass,

If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby ; Bat (phenix-like) shall make her live anew.

They will remain, and so thou can'st not die.


SONNET XL Loor, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose, Thou can'st not die, whilst any zeal abound The image of thy blush, and summer's honour! In feeling bearts, that can conceive these lines; Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose

Though thou a Laura, hast no Petrach found, That full of beauty, Time bestows upon her. In base attire yet clearly beauty shines. No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

And I (though born within a colder clime) But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to declines; Do feel mine inward heat as great, (I know it.} She then is scorn'd, that late adorn’d the fair: He never had more faith, although more rhytar; So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!

I love as well, though he could better sbow it. No April can revive thy wither'd flow'rs,

But I may add one feather to thy fame, Wbose springing grace adorns the glory now: To help her flight throughout the fairest isle: Swift speedy Time, feather'd with Aying hours, And if my pen could more enlarge thy name, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Then should'st thou live in an immortal style. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain; For though that Laura better limned be, But love now, whilst thou may'st be lov'd again. Suffice thou shalt be lov'd as well as she.


SONNET XLI. But love wbilst that thou may'st be lov'd again, Be not displeas'd, that these my papers should Now whilst thy May hath fill'd thy lap with flow'rs; Bewray unto the world how fair thou art; Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain; Or that my wits bave show'd the best they can'a Now use the summer smiles, ere winte: low'rs. (The chastest flame that ever warmed beart!; And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising Sun, Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shiane The fairest flow'r that ever saw the light,

My Muse should sound thy praise with monsNow joy thy time before thy sweet be done; How many live, the glory of whose name (warta And, Delia, think thy morning must have night; Shall rest in ice, when thine is gravid in marbk And that thy brightness sets at length to west, Thou may'st in after-ages live esteemd, When thou wilt close up that which now thou show'st, Unbury'd in these lines, reserv'd in pureness, And think the same becomes thy fading best, These shall entomb those eyes, that have recreu. Which then shall most inveil, and shadow most. Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscurents. Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was, Although my careful accents never mor'd that When once they find her flow'r, her glory pass. Yet count it no disgrace that I have lov'd the


SONNET XLII. Wrex men shall find thy flow'r, thy glory pass, Delia, these eyes that so admire thine, And thou with careful brow sitting alone,

Have seen those walls which proud ambitantes Received had'st this nessage from thy glass, To check the world; how they entomb'd have That tells the truth, and says that all is gone. Within themselves, and on them ploughs have ca fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st; / Yet never found that barb'rous hand attain'd Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining: The spoil of fame deserv'd by virtuous inen; I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fad'st, Whose glorious actions luckily had gain'd My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waining. Th' eternal andals of a happy pen. The world shall find this miracle in me,

And therefore grieve not if thy beanties de; That fire can burn when all the matter's spent: Though time do spoil thee of the fairest reil, Then what my faith hath been, thyself shall see; That ever yet cover'd mortality; And that thou wast unkind, thou may'st repent. And must enstar the needle and the rail. Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears, That grace which doth more than enwonan sebe. When #inter shows upon thy sable hairs.

Lives in my lines, and must eternal be.

« EdellinenJatka »