SONNET 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 pow'r, 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.
shall forget old wrongs; my griefs shall cease:
And that which gave my wounds, I'll give it kisses.
Once let the ocean of my cares find shore;
That thou be pleas'd, and I may sigh no more.

SONNET 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 honour'd 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 honour'd still.

SONNET 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 shew;
And straight 't is 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 forc'd to lose.
When thou, surcharg'd with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;
And that in beauty's lease expir'd, appears
The date of age, the calends of our death.
But ah! no more; this must not be foretold:
For women grieve to think they must be old.

SONNET XLVIII.

I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,
And learn to gather flow'rs 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 stiles do best become the fair;
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.

SONNET XLV.

4

My Delia hath the waters of mine eyes,
The ready hand-maids on her grace t' attend;
That never fall to ebb, but ever dries;
For to their flow she never grants an end.
The ocean never did attend more duly
Upon his sov'reign'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 their tears with zeal, and fury drives;
And yet I rather languish for 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?

SONNET XLIX.

AND whither, poor forsaken, wilt thou go,
To go from sorrow, and thine own distress?
When ev'ry 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."

SONNET XLVI.

How long shall I in mine affliction mourn?
A burden to myself, distress'd in mind!
When shall my interdicted hopes return
From out despair, wherein they live confin'd?
When shall her troubled brow, charg'd with disdain,
Reveal the treasure which her smiles impart ?
When shall my faith the happiness attain,
To break the ice that hath congeal'd her heart?
Unto herself, herself my love doth summon,
(If love in her hath any pow'r to move)
And let her tell me as she is a woman,
Whether my faith hath not deserv'd her love?
I know her heart cannot but judge with me,
Although her eyes my adversaries be.

SONNET L.

DRAWN with th' attractive virtue of her eyes,
My touch'd heart turns it to that happy coast;
My joyful North, where all my fortune lies,
The level of my hopes desired most:
There were my Delia fairer than the Sun,
Deck'd 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 disarmed peace deck her and thee;
And Muse-foe Mars abroad far foster'd be.

SONNET LI.

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 mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd 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.

SONNET LV.

NONE other fame mine unambitious Mase
Affected ever, but t' eternize thee:
All other honours do my hopes refuse,
Which meaner-priz'd and momentary be.
For God forbid I should my papers blot
With 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 theatre
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 soDZ;
No other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong.

SONNET LH.

LET others sing of knights and palladines,
In aged accents, and untimely words;
Paint shadows in imaginary lines,
Which well the reach of their high wits records:
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes;
Authentic 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 protect,
Against the dark' and time's consuming rage.
Though th' errour of my youth in them appear,
Suffice they show I liv'd and lov'd thee dear.

SONNET LVL

UNHAPPY pen, and ill-accepted lines,
That intimate in vain my chaste desire;
My chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shine.
Enkind''d by her eyes' celestial fire.
Celestial fire, and unrespecting pow'rs!
Which pity not the wounds made by their migh
Show'd in these lines the work of careful hours,
The sacrifice here offer'd to her sight.
But since she weighs them not, this rests for E,
I'll moan myself, and hide the wrong I have;
And so content me that her frowns should be
To m' infant style, the cradle and the grave.
What though my Muse no honour get thereby?
Each bird sings to herself, and so will L.

SONNET LIII.

As to the Roman that would free his land,
His errour was his honour and renown;
And more the fame of his mistaking band,
Than if he had the tyrant overthrown.
So, Delia, hath mine errour made me known,
And my deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame,
Than if I 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 errours should be grac'd, that merit shame;
And sin of frowns bring honour to the face!
Yet happy, Delia, that thou wast unkind; [mind.
Though happier far, if thou would'st change thy

SONNET LVII.

Lo here the impost of a faith entire,
Which love doth pay, and her disdain extorts
Behold the message of a chaste desire,
Which tells the world how much my grief import
These tributary passions, beauty's due,

I send those eyes the cabinets of love;
That cruelty herself might grieve to view
Th' 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-liv'd, and care succeeding care.
This is my state; and Delia's heart is such:
I say no more-I fear I said too much.

SONNET LIV.

LIKE as the lute delights, or else dislikes,
As is his art that plays upon the same;
So sounds my Muse, according as she strikes
On my heart-strings high tun'd 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 true a touch,

AN ÖDE.

Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another,

In the fall of silver show'rs;
Whilst the Earth, our common mother,
Hath her bosom deck'd with flow'rs.

Whilst the greatest torch of Heaven,

With bright rays warms Flora's lap; Making nights and days both even,

Cheering plants with fresher sap; My field of flowers quite bereaven, Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the air,

Babbling guest of rocks and hills) Knows the name of my fierce fair, And sounds the accents of my ills. Each thing pities my despair, Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she (O cruel maid!)
Doth me and my love despise;
My life's flourish is decay'd,
That depended on her eyes:
But her will must be obey'd;
and well he ends, for love who dies.

A PASTORAL.

) HAPPY, golden age!

Not for that rivers ran

$549

That mak'st that stealth, which Love doth free allow.

It is thy work that brings

Our griefs and torments thus:

But thou fierce lord of nature and of love, The qualifier of kings;

What dost thou here with us,

That are below thy pow'r, shut from above?
Go, and from us remove;
Trouble the mighties' sleep;

Let us neglected base

Live still without thy grace,

And th' use of th' ancient happy ages keep.

Let's love this life of ours

Can make no truce with Time that all devours. Let's love-the Sun doth set, and rise again; But when as our short light

ler voluntary fruits, free without fees.

Into the husbandman

Not for no cold did freeze,

for any cloud beguile

"ut only for that name,

hat idle name of wind;

hat idol of deceit, that empty sound

all'd Honour; which became

he tyrant of the mind,

nd so torments our nature without ground,

as not yet vainly found:

or yet sad griefs imparts,

midst the sweet delights

f joyful, am'rous wights.

DESCRIPTION OF BEAUTY.

TRANSLATED OUT OF MARINO.

O BEAUTY, (beams, nay, flame
Of that great lamp of light)
That shines awhile with fame,
But presently makes night!
Like winter's short liv'd bright,
Or summer's sudden gleams;

How much more dear, so much loss-lasting beams,

Wing'd Love away doth fly,
And with it Time doth bear;
And both take suddenly
The sweet, the fain, the dear.
A shining day and clear

And sorrow is the hue of sweet delight.

With what then dost thou swell,

O youth of new-born day!

Wherein doth thy pride dwell,
O Beauty made of clay!

Not with so swift a way
The headlong current flies,

As do the sparkling rays of two fair eyes.

Do not thyself betray

With wantonizing years;
O Beauty, traitors gay!
Thy melting life that wears,
Appearing, disappears;

And with thy flying days,

Ends all thy good of price, thy fair of praise.

Trust not, vain creditor,
Thy apt-deceived view,
In thy false counsellor,
That never tells thee true.
Thy form and flatter'd hue,
Which shall so soon transpass,

Is far more fair than is thy looking-glass,

O had that soul, which honour brought to rest
Too soon, not left, and reft the world of all
What man could show which we perfection call!
This precious piece had sorted with the best.
But, ah! wide-fester'd wounds (that never shall,
Nor must be clos'd) unto fresh bleeding fall.
Ah, Memory! what needs this new artist?

Yet blessed grief that sweetness can impart,
Since thou art bless'd-wrongly do I complain;
Whatever weights my heavy thoughts sustain,
Dear feels my soul for thee-I know my part.
Nor be my weakness to thy rites a stain;
Rites to aright, life, blood, would not refrain.
Assist me then, that life what thine did part.
Time may bring forth what time hath yet suppres
In whom thy loss hath laid to utter waste
The wreck of time, untimely all defac'd,
Remaining as the tomb of life deceas'd:
Where in my heart the highest room thou hast:
There, truly there, thy earthly being is plae'd:
Triumph of death!-In earth how more than bless

Behold (O that thon were now to behold!)
This finish'd long perfection's part begun;
The test but piec'd, as left by thee undone.
Pardon, bless'd soul, presumption over bold:
If love and zeal hath to this errour run,
'T is zealous love; love that hath never done,
Nor can enough, though justly here controll'd.

But since it hath no other scope to go,
Nor other purpose but to honour thee;
That thine may shine, where all the graces be:
And that my thoughts (like smallest streams th
Pay to their sea their tributary fee)
Do strive, yet have no means to quit nor free
That mighty debt of infinites I owe.