Vnto the boundles Ocean of thy beautie
Runs this poore riuer, charg'd with streames of zeale:
Returning thee the tribute of my dutie,
Which heere my loue, my youth, my playnts reueale.
Heere I vnclaspe the booke of my charg'd soule,
Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care:
Heere have I summ'd my sighes, heere I enroule
Howe they were spent for thee; Looke what they are.
Looke on the deere expences of my youth,
And see how iust I reckon with thyne eyes:
Examine well thy beautie with my trueth,
And crosse my cares ere greater summes arise.
Reade it sweet maide, though it be doone but slightly;
Who can shewe all his loue, doth loue but lightly.


Goe wailing verse, the infants of my loue,
Minerua-like, brought foorth without a Mother:
Present the image of the cares I proue,
Witnes your Fathers griefe exceedes all other.
Sigh out a story of her cruell deedes,
With interrupted accents of dispayre:
A Monument that whosoeuer reedes,
May iustly praise, and blame my loueles Faire.
Say her disdaine hath dryed vp my blood,
And starued you, in succours still denying:
Presse to her eyes, importune me some good;
Waken her sleeping pittie with your crying.
Knock at that hard hart, beg till you have moou'd her;
And tell th'vnkind, how deerely I haue lou'd her.


If so it hap this of-spring of my care,
These fatall Antheames, sad and mornefull Songes:
Come to their view, who like afflicted are;
Let them yet sigh their owne, and mone my wrongs.
But vntouch'd harts, with vnaffected eye,
Approch not to behold so great distresse:
Cleer-sighted you, soone note what is awry,
Whilst blinded ones mine errours neuer gesse.
You blinded soules whom youth and errours lead,
You outcast Eglets, dazled with your sunne:
Ah you, and none but you my sorrowes read,
You best can judge the wrong that she hath dunne.
Who whilst I loue, doth kill me with disdaine.


These plaintiue verse, the Posts of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slowe regarde:
Beare not report of any slender fire,
Forging a greife to winne a fames rewarde.
Nor are my passions limnd for outward hewe,
For that no collours can depaynt my sorrowes:
Delia her selfe, and all the world may viewe
Best in my face, how cares hath til'd deepe forrowes.
No Bayes I seeke to deck my mourning brow,
O cleer-eyed Rector of the holie Hill:
My humble accents craue the Olyue bow,
Of her milde pittie and relenting will.
These lines I use, t'unburthen mine owne hart;
My loue affects no fame, nor steemes of art.


Whilst youth and error led my wandring minde,
And set my thoughts in heedeles waies to range:
All vnawares a Goddesse chaste I finde,
Diana-like, to worke my suddaine change.
For her no sooner had my view bewrayd,
But with disdaine to see me in that place:
With fairest hand, the sweete vnkindest maide,
Castes water-cold disdaine vpon my face.
Which turn'd my sport into a Harts dispaire,
Which still is chac'd, whilst I have any breath,
By mine owne thoughts: set on me by my faire,
My thoughts like houndes, pursue me to my death.
Those that I fostred of mine owne accord,
Are made by her to murther thus their Lord.


Faire is my loue, and cruell as sh'is faire;
Her brow shades frownes, although her eyes are sunny;
Her Smiles are lightning, though her pride dispaire;
And her disdaines are gall; her fauours hunny.
A modest maide, deckt with a blush of honour,
Whose feete doe treade greene pathes of youth and loue,
The wonder of all eyes that looke vppon her:
Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint aboue.
Chastitie and Beautie, which were deadly foes,
Liue reconciled friends within her brow:
And had she pittie to conioine with those,
Then who had heard the plaints I vtter now.
O had she not beene faire, and thus vnkinde,
My Muse had slept, and none had knowne my minde.


O had she not beene faire and thus vnkinde,
Then had no finger pointed at my lightnes:
The world had neuer knowne what I doe finde,
And Clowdes obscure had shaded still her brightnes.
Then had no Censors eye these lines suruaide,
Nor grauer browes have iudg'd my Muse so vaine;
No sunne my blush and errour had bewraide,
Nor yet the world had heard of such disdaine.
Then had I walkt with bold erected face,
No down-cast looke had signified my mis:
But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace
Did force me grone out griefes, and vtter this.
For being full, should not I then have spoken:
My sence opres'd, had fail'd; and hart had broken.


Thou poore hart sacrifiz'd vnto the fairest,
Hast sent the incens of thy sighes to heauen:
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repayrest,
And made thy passions with her beautie euen.
And you mine eyes the agents of my hart,
Told the dumbe message of my hidden griefe:
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent art,
Did treate the cruell Fayre to yeelde reliefe.
And you my verse, the Aduocates of loue,
Haue followed hard the processe of my case:
And vrg'd that title which dooth plainely proue,
My faith should win, if iustice might haue place.
Yet though I see, that nought we doe can moue her,
Tis not disdaine must make me leaue to loue her.


If this be loue, to drawe a weary breath,
Painte on flowdes, till the shore, crye to th'ayre:
With downward lookes, still reading on the earth;
The sad memorials of my loues despaire.
If this be loue, to warre against my soule,
Lye downe to waile, rise vp to sigh and grieue me:
The never-resting stone of care to roule,
Still to complaine my griefes, and none releiue me.
If this be loue, to cloath me with darke thoughts,
Haunting vntroden pathes to waile apart;
My pleasures horror, Musique tragicke notes,
Teares in my eyes, and sorrowe at my hart.
If this be loue, to liue a liuing death;
O then love I, and drawe this weary breath.


O then I loue, and drawe this weary breath,
For her the cruell faire, within whose brow
I written finde the sentence of my death,
In vnkinde letters; wrought she cares not how.
O thou that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter-loving Gods, worldly pleasures Queene,
Intenerat that hart that sets so light,
The truest loue that ever yet was seene.
And cause her leaue to triumph in this wise,
Vppon the prostrate spoyle of that poore harte:
That serves a trophey to her conquering eyes,
And must their glorie to the world imparte.
Once let her know, sh'hath done enough to proue me;
And let her pittie if she cannot loue me.


Teares, vowes, and prayers win the hardest hart:
Teares, vowes, and prayers haue I spent in vaine;
Teares, cannot soften flint, nor vowes conuart,
Prayers preuaile not with a quaint disdaine.
I lose my teares, where I have lost my loue,
I vowe my faith, where faith is not regarded;
I pray in vaine, a merciles to moue:
So rare a faith ought better be rewarded.
Yet though I cannot win her will with teares,
Though my soules Idoll scorneth all my vowes;
Though all my prayers be to so deafe eares:
No fauour though the cruell faire allowes.
Yet will I weepe, vowe, pray to cruell Shee;
Flint, Frost, Disdaine, weares, melts, and yeelds we see.


My spotles loue hoouers with white wings:
About the temple of the proudest frame:
Where blaze those lights fayrest of earthly things,
Which cleere our clouded world with brightest flame.
M'ambitious thoughts confined in her face,
Affect no honour, but what she can give mee:
My hopes doe rest in limits of her grace,
I weygh no comfort vnlesse she releeue mee.
For she that can my hart imparadize,
Holdes in her fairest hand what deerest is:
My fortunes wheele, the circle of her eyes,
Whose rowling grace deigne once a turn of blis.
All my liues sweete consists in her alone,
So much I loue the most vnlouing one.


Behold what happe Pigmaleon had to frame,
And carue his proper griefe vpon a stone:
My heauie fortune is much like the same,
I worke on Flint, and that's the cause I mone.
For haples loe euen with mine owne desires,
I figured on the table of my harte:
The fayrest forme, the worldes eye admires,
And so did perish by my proper arte.
And still I toile, to chaunge the marble brest
Of her, whose sweetest grace I doe adore:
Yet cannot finde her breathe vnto my rest,
Hard is her hart and woe is me therefore.
O happie he that ioy'd his stone and arte,
Vnhappy I to loue a stony harte.


Those amber locks, are those same nets my deere,
Wherewith my libertie thou didst surprize:
Loue was the flame, that fired me so neere,
The darte transpearsing, were those Christall eyes.
Strong is the net, and feruent is the flame;
Deepe is the wounde, my sighes do well report:
Yet doe I loue, adore, and praise the same,
That holdes, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.
And list not seeke to breake, to quench, to heale,
The bonde, the flame, the wound the festreth so;
By knife, by lyquor, or by salue to deale:
So much I please to perish in my wo.
Yet least long trauailes be aboue my strength,
Good Delia lose, quench, heale me now at length.


If that a loyall hart and faith vnfained,
If a sweete languish with a chast desire:
If hunger-staruen thoughts so long retayned,
Fed but with smoake, and cherisht but with fire.
And if a brow with cares caracterss painted,
Bewraies my loue, with broken words halfe spoken;
To her that fits in my thoughts Temple fainted,
And layes to view my Vultur-gnawne hart open.
If I have doone due homage to her eyes,
And had my sighes styll tending on her name:
If on her loue my life and honour lyes;
And she th'vnkindest maide still scornes the same.
Let this suffice, the world yet may see;
The fault is hers, though mine the hurt must bee.


Happie in sleepe, waking content to languish,
Imbracing cloudes by night, in day time morne:
All things I loath saue her and mine owne anguish,
Pleas'd in my hurt, inur'd to liue forlorne.
Nought doe I craue, but loue, death, or my Lady,
Hoarce with crying mercy, mercy yet my merit;
So many vowes and prayers euer made I,
That now at length t'yeelde, meere pittie were it.
But still the Hydra of my cares renuing,
Reuiues new sorrowes of her fresh disdayning;
Still must I goe the Summer windes pursuing:
Finding no ende nor Period of my payning.
Waile all my life, my greifes do touch so neerely,
And thus I liue, because I loue her deerely.


Since the first looke that led me to this error,
To this thoughts-maze, to my confusion tending:
Still have I liu'd in griefe, in hope, in terror,
The circle of my sorrowes neuer ending.
Yet cannot leaue her loue that holdes me hatefull,
Her eyes exact it, though her hart disdaines mee:
See what reward he hath that serues th'vngratefull,
So true and loyall loue no fauours gaines mee.
Still must I whet my younge desires abated,
Vppon the Flint of such a hart rebelling;
And all in vaine, her pride is so innated,
She yeeldes no place at all for pitties dwelling.
Oft haue I tolde her that my soule did loue her,
And that with teares, yet all this will not moue her.


Restore thy tresses to the golden Ore,
Yeelde Cithereas sonne those Arkes of loue;
Bequeath the heauens the starres that I adore,
And to th'Orient do thy Pearles remoue.
Yeelde thy hands pride vnto th'yuory whight,
T'Arabian odors giue thy breathing sweete:
Restore thy blush vnto Aurora bright,
To Thetis giue the honour of thy feete.
Let Venus haue thy graces, her resigned,
And thy sweete voyce giue backe vnto the Spheares:
But yet restore thy fearce and cruell minde,
To Hyrcan Tygers, and to ruthles Beares.
Yeelde to the Marble thy hard hart againe;
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to paine.


If Beautie thus be clouded with a frowne,
That pittie shines no comfort to my blis:
And vapors of disdaine so ouergrowne,
That my liues light thus wholy darkned is.
Why should I more molest the world with cryes?
The ayre with sighes, the earth belowe with teares?
Since I liue hatefull to those ruthlesse eyes,
Vexing with vntun'd moane, her daintie eares.
If I haue lou'd her deerer then my breath,
My breath that calls the heauens to witnes it:
And still must holde her deere till after death.
And if that all this cannot moue a whit;
Yet let her say that she hath doone me wrong,
To vse me thus and knowe I lou'd so long.


Come death the Anchor-holde of all my thoughtes,
My last Resort whereto my soule appealeth;
For all too long on earth my fancy dotes,
Whilst my best blood my younge desiers sealeth.
That hart is now the pospectiue of horror,
That honored hath the cruelst faire that lyueth:
The cruelst faire, that sees I languish for her,
Yet neuer mercy to my merit giueth.
This is her Lawrell and her triumphes prize,
To tread me downe with foote of her disgrace:
Whilst I did builde my fortune in her eyes,
And laide my liues rest on so faire a face;
That rest I lost, my loue, my life and all,
So high attempts to lowe disgraces fall.


These sorrowing sighes, the smaokes of mine annoy;
These teares, which heate of sacred flame distils;
Are these due tributes that my faith dooth pay
Vnto the tyrant; whose vnkindnes kils.
I sacrifize my youth, and blooming yeares,
At her proud feete, and she respects not it:
My flowre vntimely's withred with my teares,
And winter woes, for spring of youth vnfit.
She thinkes a looke may recompence my care,
And so with lookes prolongs my long-lookt ease:
As short that blisse, so is the comfort rare,
Yet must that blisse my hungry thoughts appease.
Thus she returnes my hopes so fruitlesse euer,
Once let her loue indeede, or eye me neuer.


False hope prolongs my euer certaine griefe;
Traytrous to me and faithfull to my loue:
A thousand times it promis'd me reliefe,
Yet neuer any true effect I proue.
Oft when I finde in her no trueth at all,
I banish her, and blame her trechery:
Yet soone againe I must her backe recall,
As one that dyes without her company.
Thus often as I chase my hope from mee,
Straight way she hates her vnto Delias eyes:
Fed with some pleasing looke there shall she bee,
And so sent backe and thus my fortune lyes.
Lookes feede my Hope, Hope fosters me in vaine;
Hopes are vnsure, when certaine is my paine.


Looke in my griefes, and blame me not to morne,
From care to care that leades a life so bad;
Th'Orphan of fortune, borne to be her scorne,
Whose clouded brow dooth make my daies so sad.
Long are their nights whose cares doe neuer sleepe
Loathsome their daies, whome no sunne euer ioyde:
Her fairest eyes doe penetrate so deepe,
That thus I liue booth day and night annoyde.
But since the sweetest roote doth yeeld thus much,
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:
I loue th'effect for that the cause is such,
Ile praise her face, and blame her flintie hart.
Whilst that wee make the world admire at vs,
Her for disdaine, and me for louing thus.


Oft and in vaine my rebel thoughts haue ventred,
To stop the passage of my vanquisht hart:
And shut those waies my friendly foe first entred,
Hoping thereby to free my better part.
And whilst I garde these windowes of this forte,
Where my harts theese to vexe me made her choice:
And thether all my forces doe transporte,
An other passage opens at her voice.
Her voyce betraies me to her hand and eye:
My freedomes tyrants conquering all by arte:
But ah, what glorie can she get thereby,
With three such powers to plague one silly harte.
Yet my soules soueraigne, since I must resigne;
Reigne in my thoughts, my loue and life are thine.


Raigne in my thoughts faire hand, sweete eye, rare voyce,
Possesse me whole, my harts triumuirat:
Yet heauie hart to make so hard a choise,
Of such as spoile thy poore afflicted state,
For whilst they striue which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is troden downe:
They all erect their Trophies on my fall.
And yeelde me nought that giues them their renowne.
When backe I looke, I sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stande:
And see my fortune euer like to last,
Finding me rain'd with such a heauie hande;
What can I doo but yeeld, and yeeld I doo,
And serue all three, and yet they spoile me too.


Whilst by her eyes pursu'd, my poore hart flew it,
Into the sacred bosome of my deerest:
She there in that sweete sanctuary flew it,
Where it presum'd his safetie to be neerest.
My priuiledge of faith could not protect it,
That was with blood and three yeeres witnes signed:
In all which time she neuer could suspect it,
For well she sawe my loue, and how I pined.
And yet no comfort would her brow reueale mee.
No lightning looke, which falling hopes erecteth:
What bootes to lawes of succour to appeale mee?
Ladies and tyrants, neuer lawes respecteth.
Then there I dye, where hop'd I to have liuen;
And by that hand, which better might haue giuen.


The starre of my mishappe impos'd this payning,
To spend the Aprill of my yeers in wayling,
That neuer found my fortune but in wayning,
With still fresh cares my present woes assayling.
Yet her I blame not, though she might haue blest mee,
But my desires wings so high aspiring:
Now melted with the sunne that hath possest mee,
Downe doe I fall from off my high desiring;
And in my fall doe cry for mercy speedy,
No pittying eye lookes backe vppon my mourning:
No helpe I finde when now most fauour neede I,
Th'Ocean of my teares must drowne me burning,
And this my death shall christen her anew,
And giue the cruell Faire her tytle dew.


Raysing my hopes on hills of high desire,
Thinking to skale the heauen of her hart:
My slender meanes presum'd too high a part;
Her thunder of disdaine forst me retire;
And threw mee downe to paine in all this fire,
Where loe I languish in so heauie smart,
Because th'attempt was farre aboue my arte:
Her pride brook'd not poore soules shold come so nye her.
Yet I protest my high aspyring will,
Was not to dispossesse her of her right:
Her soueraignty should haue remayned still,
I onely sought the blisse to haue her sight.
Her sight contented thus to see me spill,
Fram'd my desires fit for her eyes to kill.


O why dooth Delia credite so her glasse,
Gazing her beautie deign'd her by the skyes:
And dooth not rather looke on him (alas)
Whose state best shewes the force of murthering eyes.
The broken toppes of loftie trees declare,
The fury of a mercy wanting storme:
And of what force your wounding graces are,
Vppon my selfe you best may finde the forme.
Then leave your glasse, and gaze your selfe on mee,
That Mirrour shewes what powre is in your face:
To viewe your forme too much, may daunger bee,
Narcissus chaung'd t'a flowre in such a case.
And you are chaung'd, but not t'a Hiacint;
I feare your eye hath turn'd your hart to flint.


I once may see when yeeres shall wrecke my wronge,
When golden haires shall chaunge to siluer wyer:
And those bright rayes, that kindle all this fyer
Shall faile in force, their working not so stronge.
Then beautie, now the burthen of my song,
Whose glorious blaze the world dooth so admire;
Must yeelde vp all to tyrant Times desire:
Then fade those flowres which deckt her pride so long.
When if she grieue to gaze her in her glas,
Which then presents her winter-withered hew;
Goe you my verse, goe tell her what she was;
For what she was she best shall finde in you.
Your firie heate lets not her glorie passe,
But Phenix-like shall make her liue anew.


Looke Delia how wee steeme the half-blowne Rose,
The image of thy blush and Summers honor:
Whilst in her tender greene she doth inclose
That pure sweete beautie, Time bestowes vppon her.
No sooner spreades her glorie in the ayre,
But straight her ful-blowne pride is in declyning;
She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fayre:
So clowdes thy beautie, after fayrest shining.
No Aprill can reuiue thy withred flowers,
Whose blooming grace adornes thy glorie now:
Swift speedy Time, feathred with flying howers,
Dissolues the beautie of the fairest brow.
O let not then such riches waste in vaine;
But loue whilst that thou maist be lou'd againe.


But loue whilst that thou maist be lou'd againe,
Now whilst thy May hath fill'd thy lappe with flowers;
Now whilst thy beautie beares without a staine;
Now vse thy Summer smiles ere winter lowres.
And whilst thou spread'st vnto the rysing sunne,
The fairest flowre that euer sawe the light:
Now ioye thy time before thy sweete be dunne,
And Delia, thinke thy morning must haue night.
And that thy brightnes sets at length to west:
When thou wilt close vp that which now thou showest:
And thinke the same becomes thy fading best,
Which then shall hide it most, and couer lowest.
Men doe not weigh the stalke for that it was,
When once they finde her flowre, her glory passe.


When men shall finde thy flowre, thy glory passe,
And thou with carefull brow sitting alone:
Receiued hast this mesage from thy glasse,
That tells thee trueth, and saies that all is gone.
Fresh shalt thou see in mee the woundes thou madest,
Though spent thy flame, in mee the heate remayning:
I that have lou'd thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall waxe, when thou art in thy wayning.
The world shall finde this miracle in mee,
That fire can burne, when all the matter's spent:
Then what my faith hath beene thy selfe shalt see,
And that thou wast vnkinde thou maiest repent.
Thou maist repent, that thou hast scorn'd my teares,
When Winter snowes vppon thy golden heares.


When Winter snowes vpon thy golden heares,
And frost of age hath nipt thy flowers neere:
When darke shall seeme thy day that neuer cleares,
And all lyes withred that was held so deere.
Then take this picture which I heere present thee,
Limned with a Pensill not all vnworthy:
Heere see the giftes that God and nature lent thee;
Heere read thy selfe, and what I suffred for thee,
This may remaine thy lasting monument,
Which happily posteritie may cherish:
These collours with thy fading are not spent;
These may remaine, when thou and I shall perish.
If they remaine, then thou shalt liue thereby;
They will remaine, and so thou canst not dye.


Thou canst not dye whilst any zeale abounde
In feeling harts, that can conceiue these lines:
Though thou a Laura hast no Petrarch founde,
In base attire, yet cleerely Beautie shines.
And I, though borne in a colder clime,
Doe feele mine inward heate as great, I knowe it:
He neuer had more faith, although more rime,
I loue as well, though he could better shew it.
But I may ad one feather to thy fame,
To helpe her flight throughout the fairest Ile:
And if my penne could more enlarge thy name,
Then shouldst thou liue in an immortall stile.
But though that Laura better limned bee,
Suffice, thou shalt be lou'd as well as shee.


O be not grieu'd that these my papers should,
Bewray vnto the world howe faire thou art:
Or that my wits have shew'd the best they could,
The chastest flame that euer warmed hart.
Thinke not sweete Delia, this shall be thy shame,
My Muse should sound thy praise with mournefull warble:
How many liues the glory of whose name,
Shall rest in yce, when thine is grau'd in Marble.
Thou maist in after ages liue esteem'd,
Vnburied in these lines reseru'd in purenes;
These shall intombe those eyes, that haue redeem'd
Mee from the vulgar, thee from all obscurenes.
Although my carefull accents neuer mou'd thee;
Yet count it no disgrace that I haue lou'd thee.


Delia these eyes that so admireth thine,
Haue seene those walles the which ambition reared,
To checke the world, how they intombd haue lyen
Within themselues; and on them ploughes haue eared.
Yet for all that no barbarous hand attaynde,
The spoyle of fame deseru'd by vertuous men:
Whose glorious actions luckely had gainde,
Th'eternall Annalls of a happie pen.
Why then though Delia fade let that not moue her,
Though time do spoyle her of the fairest vaile
That euer yet mortallitie did couer;
Which shall instarre the needle and the trayle.
That grace, that vertue, all that seru'd t'in woman;
Dooth her vnto eternitie assommon.


Faire and louely maide, looke from the shore,
See thy Leander striuing in these waues:
Poore soule fore-spent, whose force can doe no more,
Now send foorth hopes, for now calme pitte saues.
And wafte him to thee with those louely eyes,
A happy conuoy to a holy lande:
Now shew thy powre, and where thy vertue lyes,
To saue thine owne, stretch out the fayrest hand.
Stretch out the fairest hand a pledge of peace,
That hand that dartes so right, and neuer misses:
Ile not reuenge olde wrongs, my wrath shall cease;
For that which gaue me woundes, Ile giue it kisses.
Once let the Ocean of my cares finde shore,
That thou be pleas'd, and I may sigh no more.


Reade in my face, a volume of despayres,
The wayling Iliades of my tragicke wo;
Drawne with my bloud, and printed with my cares,
Wrought by her hand, that I haue honoured so.
Who whilst I burne, she singes at my soules wrack,
Looking a loft from Turret of her pride:
There my soules tyrant ioyes her, in the sack
Of her owne seate, whereof I made her guide.
There doe these smoakes that from affliction ryse,
Serue as an incense to a cruell Dame:
A Sacrifize thrice gratefull to her eyes,
Because their powre serue to exact the same.
Thus ruines she, to satisfie her will;
The Temple, where her name was honored still.


My Cynthia hath the waters of mine eyes,
The ready handmaides on her grace attending:
That neuer fall to ebbe, nor euer dryes,
For to their flowe she neuer graunts an ending.
Th'Ocean neuer did attende more duely,
Vppon his Soueraignes course, the nights pale Queene:
Nor paide the impost of his waues more truely,
Then mine to her in truth haue euer beene.
Yet nought the rocke of that hard hart can moue,
Where beate these teares with zeale, and fury driueth:
And yet I rather languish in her loue
Then I would ioy the fayrest she that liueth.
I doubt to finde such pleasure in my gayning,
As now I taste in compas of complayning.


How long shall I in mine affliction morne,
A burthen to my selfe, distress'd in minde:
When shall my interdicted hopes returne,
From out despayre wherein they liue confin'd.
When shall her troubled browe charg'd with disdaine,
Reueale the treasure which her smyles impart:
When shall my faith the happinesse attaine,
To breake the yce that hath congeald her hart.
Vnto her selfe, her selfe my loue dooth sommon,
If loue in her hath any powre to moue:
And let her tell me as she is a woman,
Whether my faith hath not deseru'd her loue.
I knowe she cannot but must needes confesse it,
Yet deignes not with one simple signe t'expresse it.


Beautie, sweet loue, is like the morning dewe,
Whose short refresh vpon the tender greene,
Cheeres for a time but tyll the Sunne doth shew,
And straight tis gone as it had neuer beene.
Soone doth it fade that makes sthe fairest florish,
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose,
The hew which thou so carefully doost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.
When thou surcharg'd with burthen of thy yeeres,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth:
When tyme hath made a pasport for thy feares,
Dated in age the Kalends of our death.
But ah no more, thys hath beene often tolde,
And women grieue to thinke they must be old.


I must not grieue my Loue, whose eyes would reede,
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smyle:
Flowers haue a tyme before they come to seede,
And she is young and now must sport the while.
Ah sport sweet Mayde in season of these yeeres,
And learne to gather flowers before they wither:
And where the sweetest blossoms first appeares,
Let loue and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smyles to cleere the clowded ayre,
And calme the tempest which my sighes doe rayse:
Pittie and smyles doe best become the fayre,
Pittie and smyles shall yeeld thee lasting prayse.
I hope to say when all my griefes are gone,
Happy the hart that sigh'd for such a one.


Drawne vvith th'attractiue vertue of her eyes,
My toucht hart turnes it to that happie cost:
My ioyfull North, where all my fortune lyes,
The leuell of my hopes desired most.
There vvhere my Delia fayrer then the sunne,
Deckt with her youth whereon the world smyleth:
Ioyes in that honour vvhich her beautie wonne,
Th'eternall volume vvhich her fame compyleth.
Florish faire Albion, glory of the North,
Neptunes darling helde betweene his armes:
Deuided from the world as better worth,
Kept for himselfe, defended from all harmes.
Still let disarmed peace decke her and thee;
And Muse-foe Mars, abroade farre fostred bee.


Care-charmer sleepe, sonne of the Sable night,
Brother to death, in silent darknes borne:
Relieue my languish, and restore the light,
With darke forgetting of my cares returne
And let the day be time enough to morne,
The shipwrack of my ill-aduentred youth:
Let vvaking eyes suffice to vvayle theyr scorne,
Without the torment of the nights vntruth.
Cease dreames, th'ymagery of our day desires,
To modell foorth the passions of the morrow:
Neuer let rysing Sunne approue you lyers,
To adde more griefe to aggrauat my sorrow.
Still let me sleepe, imbracing clovvdes in vaine;
And neuer vvake, to feele the dayes disdayne.


Let others sing of Knights and Palladines,
In aged accents, and vntimely words:
Paint shadowes in imaginary lines,
Which well the reach of their high wits records;
But I must sing of thee and those faire eyes,
Autentique shall my verse in time to come,
When yet th'vnborne shall say, loe where she lyes,
Whose beautie made him speake that els was dombe.
These are the Arkes the Tropheis I erect,
That fortifie thy name against old age,
And these thy sacred vertues must protect,
Against the Darke and times consuming rage.
Though th'error of my youth they shall discouer,
Suffice they shew I liu'd and was thy louer.


Like as the Lute that ioyes or els dislikes,
As is his arte that playes vpon the same:
So sounds my Muse according as she strikes,
On my hart strings high tun'd vnto her fame.
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
Which heere I yeeld in lamentable wise,
A wailing deskant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports giue honor to her eyes.
Els harsh my style, vntunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that prayseth not her name:
If any pleasing realish heere I vse,
Then iudge the world her beautie giues the same.
O happie ground that makes the musique such,
And blessed hand that giues so sweete a tuch.


None other fame myne vnambitious Muse,
Affected euer but t'eternize thee:
All other honours doe my hopes refuse,
Which meaner priz'd and momentarie bee.
For God forbid I should my papers blot,
With mercynary lines, with seruile pen:
Praising vertues in them that haue them not,
Basely attending on the hopes of men.
No no my verse respects nor Thames nor Theaters,
Nor seekes it to be knowne vnto the Great:
But Auon rich in fame, though poore in waters,
Shall have my song, where Delia hath her seate.
Ile sound her name the Ryuer all along.


Vnhappy pen and ill accepted papers,
That intimate in vaine my chaste desiers,
My chaste desiers, the euer burning tapers,
Inkindled by her eyes celestiall fiers.
Celestiall fiers and vnrespecting powers,
That deigne not view the glory of your might,
In humble lines the worke of carefull howers,
The sacrifice I offer to her sight.
But sith she scornes her owne, this rests for me,
Ile mone my selfe, and hide the wrong I haue:
And so content me that her frownes should be
To my' infant stile the cradle, and the graue.
What though my selfe no honor get thereby,
Each byrd sings t'herselfe, and so will I.


Loe heere the impost of a faith vnfaining,
That loue hath paide, and her disdaine extorted:
Beholde the message of my iust complayning,
That shewes the world how much my griefe imported.
These tributary plaintes fraught with desire,
I sende those eyes the cabinets of loue;
The Paradice whereto my hopes aspire,
From out this hell, which mine afflictions proue.
Wherein I thus doe liue cast downe from myrth,
Pensiue alone, none but despayre about mee;
My ioyes abortiue, perisht at their byrth,
My carres long liu'de, and will not dye without mee.
This is my state, and Delias hart is such;
I say no more, I feare I saide too much.