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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles, by
+Samuel Daniel and Henry Constable
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles
+       Delia - Diana
+
+Author: Samuel Daniel and Henry Constable
+
+Editor: Martha Foote Crow
+
+Release Date: July 16, 2006 [EBook #18842]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELIZABETHAN SONNET-CYCLES ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Starner, Taavi Kalju and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ELIZABETHAN SONNET-CYCLES
+
+EDITED BY
+
+MARTHA FOOTE CROW
+
+
+DELIA
+
+BY SAMUEL DANIEL
+
+DIANA
+
+BY HENRY CONSTABLE
+
+
+KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUeBNER AND CO.
+PATERNOSTER HOUSE LONDON W.C.
+
+1896
+
+
+
+
+DELIA
+
+BY
+
+SAMUEL DANIEL
+
+
+
+
+SAMUEL DANIEL
+
+
+Daniel's sonnet series has been by many regarded as the prototype of
+Shakespeare's. It is true that several of Daniel's themes are repeated
+in the cycle composed by the greater poet. The ideas of immortality in
+verse, the transitoriness of beauty, the assurances of truth, the
+humility and the woes of the lover, the pain of separation and the
+comfort of night thoughts, shape the mood of both poets. But these
+motives are also found in the pages of many other sonneteers of the
+time. All these devotees seem to have had a storehouse of poetic
+conceits which they held in common, and from which each poet had the
+right to draw materials to use in his own way. In fact Shakespeare's
+sonnets are full of echoes from the voices of Sidney, Constable, Davies,
+Lodge, Watson, Drayton and Barnes, as well as from that mellifluous one
+of Daniel; and these poetic conceits were tossed forth in the first
+place by the Italian sonnet makers, led by Petrarch. It is evident that
+Daniel's _Petrarch_ has been well-thumbed. Wood says that Daniel left
+Oxford without a degree because "his geny" was "more prone to easier and
+smoother studies than in pecking and hewing at logic," and we may
+believe that Italian was one of these smoother studies. His translation
+of Paolo Giovi's work on Emblems, which was published in 1585, was
+doubtless one fruit of this study, a work that since it took him into
+the very realm of the _concetti_, was to be a potent influence upon his
+mental growth. The main theme, the cruelty of the Fair, is the same as
+that of Petrarch. Daniel follows this master in making the vale echo
+with his sighs, in appealing to her hand and cruel bosom for mercy, in
+recounting the number of years he has worshipped her and honored her
+with sonnets on which he is depending for immortal fame, in upbraiding
+her for her devotion to the mirror rather than to him, and for ensnaring
+him with the golden net of her hair and transpiercing him with the
+darts from her crystalline eyes. In some of Petrarch's nobler flights
+Daniel does not follow; the higher teachings of love are not revealed to
+him, the step from human to divine he does not take; yet in the main,
+the features of the earlier poet re-appear in Daniel's verse, as they do
+in most of his fellow-sonneteers, including Shakespeare.
+
+It is also not best to give too much weight to the opinion that
+Shakespeare has been over-influenced by Daniel in the adoption of the
+quatrain and couplet structure. The whole period from Wyatt to
+Shakespeare shows a slow and steady mastery of the native over the
+foreign tendency. The change was not a sudden leap on the part of Daniel
+and Shakespeare, but a gradual growth occupying a half century and
+culminating in the English form. But if we should feel convinced that
+Shakespeare's memory was influenced by the sound of Daniel's cadences,
+this need not be considered discreditable to Shakespeare. Daniel's lines
+are smooth and melodious, and he was perhaps as great a master of the
+technique of rhyme as was Shakespeare. If we take the sonnets of both
+poets as criterion, the careful Daniel uses twice as many rhyme colours
+as Shakespeare, while Shakespeare repeats rhymes twice as often as
+Daniel. If double rhymes find less favor with the captious, we admit
+that Daniel has a third more than Shakespeare has, but again Shakespeare
+uses twice as many rhymes on syllables with secondary stress as does
+Daniel, and Shakespeare's bad rhymes are as bad as Daniel's and more
+frequent.
+
+Daniel's poetic powers were appreciated to the full in his time. To his
+contemporaries he was the "well languaged," the "sharp conceited," one
+by whose verse Rosamond was eternised, one who "divinely sonnetted his
+Delia." When Judicio in _The Return from Parnassus_ makes his inventory
+of poet's qualities, in giving his judgment on Daniel, he evidently has
+the _Delia_ in mind.
+
+    "Sweet honey-dropping Daniel doth wage
+    War with the proudest big Italian
+    That melts his heart in sugared sonnetting."
+
+If Jonson, Daniel's rival as maker of masques for the Court, proclaimed
+him a good honest man but no poet, Spenser generously said he surpassed
+"all that afore him came;" and scarcely one of the more prominent of his
+contemporaries failed to address compliments to him. When Daniel was
+gentleman extraordinary and groom of the privy chamber to Anne,
+Queen-consort to James I., the Queen is said to have been a "favourer
+and encourager of his muse;" and his high social position made it easy
+for less favoured aspirants to praise him. But the perspective of time
+brings a more balanced judgment. While Lowell finds in the fact that
+Daniel was held in high esteem by his contemporaries a proof that noble
+diction was appreciated then as now, and while he admits that Daniel
+refined our tongue, yet he decided that Daniel had the thinking and
+languaging parts of a poet's outfit but lacked the higher creative gift.
+We shall find Daniel at his best, not when in prosaic soberness he sings
+
+    "... the civil wars, tumultuous broils,
+    And bloody factions of a mighty land."
+
+not when he is framing stilted tragedies with chorus and declamation in
+the grand Senecan manner, not in his complimentary addresses to lords,
+ladies and royalty, nor in the classic masques and philosophical
+dialogue, but in the less ambitious poems of _Delia_ and _Rosamond_,
+especially in such a sonnet as "Care-charmer Sleep," where we come more
+near to hearing a human heart beat than in any of the others. It is not
+a mighty heart, but it is one that is gentle, tender and pure.
+
+A glance at the life of Daniel gives opportunity for an easy conjecture
+as to the personality of the lady honoured under the name of Delia. At
+seventeen Daniel was at Oxford, and finished a three years' residence at
+Magdalen College in 1582. After a visit to Italy, he became established
+at Wilton as tutor to the sons of Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke. To
+those early days at Wilton the poet refers, when in 1603 he dedicates
+his _Defense of Rhyme_ to William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, his former
+pupil. In the introduction to this fine essay Daniel declares that in
+regard to his poetic studies he was "first encouraged and framed
+thereunto by your most worthy and honourable mother, and received the
+first notion for the formal ordering of those compositions at Wilton
+which I must ever acknowledge as my best school, and thereof always am
+to hold a feeling and grateful memory." At this time the home of the
+Herberts at Wilton was a literary centre. The Countess was herself an
+industrious author, and the subject of innumerable dedicatory addresses.
+She seems to have been as beautiful as she was gracious and gifted. In
+the Penshurst picture we see her in extreme youth. The long oval and
+delicate chiselling of the Sidney face are expressed in their finest
+perfection, and justify the resemblance, found by Spenser, to "her
+brother dear." The soft hair is of the same golden-brown as his, the
+colour her eldest son inherited, and which Shakespeare is said to have
+described in his figure of the marjoram-buds. In the picture by
+Gheeraedts at the National Portrait Gallery, painted in 1614, she has
+lost little of her youthful beauty, but has added the special graces of
+maturity. The hair is still a rich brown. A thoughtful soul sits
+brooding behind those attentive eyes--a soul that seems to wish to ask
+the universal unanswerable questions, one that has grappled with doubt
+and struggled with environing circumstance, but has not yet consented to
+be baffled. The face is modern and complex. This accomplished lady
+received at Wilton the most distinguished people of her time. Her guests
+included Spenser, Raleigh, probably Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Inigo
+Jones, Sir John Harrington, Dr. Donne, and many more; and the Countess's
+_Pastoral Dialogue in Praise of Astraea_ was probably written in honour
+of a visit from the Queen herself. It would perhaps be strange if the
+young poet did not surround the personality of this fascinating
+patroness with a romantic halo and feel that his poetic fame was linked
+with hers. The Delia of the sonnets has all the excellencies that a
+sonnet-honoured lady should have, including locks of gold. But the fact
+that the poet has slyly changed the word "amber" to "snary" in sonnet
+xiv., and "golden" to "sable" in sonnet xxxviii., looks as if he desired
+to shield her personality from too blunt a guess. However, many hints
+are given; she lives in the "joyful North," in "fair Albion;" she is
+
+    "The eternal wonder of our happy Isle."
+
+And the river by which he sounds her name is the Avon--
+
+    "But Avon, poor in fame and poor in waters,
+    Shall have my song, where Delia hath her seat."
+
+The Wiltshire Avon is the proud brook that flows southward by Wilton,
+"where Delia hath her seat." If it may seem in any degree unfitting that
+Daniel should address language so glowing as is found in the _Delia_
+sonnets to a lady who is established as the head of a household with
+husband and sons about her, attention may be called to the fact that the
+sonnets, though they are characterised by warmth of feeling and
+extravagance of expression, do not contain one tainted line. Posterity
+must justify what Daniel in proud humility said of himself:
+
+    "I    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
+    .  .  . never had my harmless pen at all
+    Distained with any loose immodesty,
+    But still have done the fairest offices
+    To virtue and the time."
+
+The respectful dignity of Daniel's prose dedication of _Delia_ to Mary
+Sidney cannot be surpassed; and the introductory sonnet that displaces
+it in the next edition, while confessing the ardent devotion of the
+writer, is yet couched in the most reverent terms. Daniel and other
+sonneteers had the great example of Petrarch in honouring a lady with
+admiration and love expressed in verses whose warmth might perhaps not
+have been so excusable, could the poet have been taken at his word. The
+new sonnets inserted in the editions of 1601 and 1623 show the
+faithfulness of the poet's homage. A loyal friendship, whether formed
+upon gratitude only or upon some warmer feeling, inspired the _Delia_
+although the poet expresses his devotion in the conventional modes. But
+that Daniel outgrew to some extent the taste for these fanciful devices
+is shown by the changes he made in successive editions. Four sonnets
+from the 1591 edition were never reprinted, another was reprinted once
+and afterwards omitted. In our text the order of the 1623 edition is
+followed, the edition that was supervised by the poet's brother; but
+these omitted sonnets will be found at the end under the head of
+_Rejected Sonnets_. It is certain that they are Daniel's and that he
+rejected them, and it therefore seems no more than fair to the poet, if
+they are reprinted at all, to insert them under this head.
+
+While, then, these rejected sonnets may have been in two cases omitted
+by the poet because of their too great frankness of expression, in other
+cases, notably in the phoenix, the wax-image, the tablet-and-siren, the
+vanquished fort, and the ermelin sonnets, they seem to have lost their
+charm, not so much for any personal reason as for the artistic defect in
+the far-fetched nature of the device.
+
+Daniel lived till 1619, experiencing the usual ups and downs in the
+career of a "Court-dear poet." In later years, the famous Lady Anne
+Clifford, wife of Mary Sidney's younger son, caused a monument to be
+erected in his honour, in the inscription upon which she recorded her
+pride in the fact that he had once been her tutor.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
+
+THE LADY MARY
+
+COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE
+
+
+    Wonder of these, glory of other times,
+      O thou whom envy ev'n is forced t'admire!
+      Great Patroness of these my humble rhymes,
+      Which thou from out thy greatness dost inspire!
+    Since only thou has deigned to raise them higher,
+      Vouchsafe now to accept them as thine own,
+      Begotten by thy hand and my desire,
+      Wherein my zeal and thy great might is shown.
+    And seeing this unto the world is known,
+      O leave not still to grace thy work in me;
+      Let not the quickening seed be overthrown
+      Of that which may be born to honor thee,
+    Whereof the travail I may challenge mine,
+    But yet the glory, Madam, must be thine!
+
+
+TO DELIA
+
+I
+
+    Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty
+      Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal,
+      Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
+      Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.
+    Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,
+      Where I have cast th' accounts of all my care;
+      Here have I summed my sighs. Here I enrol
+      How they were spent for thee. Look, what they are.
+    Look on the dear expenses of my youth,
+      And see how just I reckon with thine eyes.
+      Examine well thy beauty with my truth,
+      And cross my cares ere greater sums arise.
+    Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly;
+    Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly.
+
+
+II
+
+    Go, wailing verse, the infants of my love,
+      Minerva-like, brought forth without a mother;
+      Present the image of the cares I prove,
+      Witness your father's grief exceeds all other.
+    Sigh out a story of her cruel deeds,
+      With interrupted accents of despair;
+      A monument that whosoever reads,
+      May justly praise and blame my loveless Fair;
+    Say her disdain hath dried up my blood,
+      And starved you, in succours still denying;
+      Press to her eyes, importune me some good,
+      Waken her sleeping pity with your crying:
+    Knock at her hard heart, beg till you have moved her,
+    And tell th'unkind how dearly I have loved her.
+
+
+III
+
+    If so it hap this offspring of my care,
+      These fatal anthems, lamentable songs,
+      Come to their view, who like afflicted are;
+      Let them yet sigh their own, and moan my wrongs.
+    But untouched hearts with unaffected eye,
+      Approach not to behold my soul's distress;
+      Clear-sighted you soon note what is awry,
+      Whilst blinded souls mine errors never guess.
+    You blinded souls, whom youth and error lead;
+      You outcast eaglets dazzled with your sun,
+      Do you, and none but you, my sorrows read;
+      You best can judge the wrongs that she hath done,
+    That she hath done, the motive of my pain,
+    Who whilst I love doth kill me with disdain.
+
+
+IV
+
+    These plaintive verse, the posts of my desire,
+      Which haste for succour to her slow regard,
+      Bear not report of any slender fire,
+      Forging a grief to win a fame's reward.
+    Nor are my passions limned for outward hue,
+      For that no colours can depaint my sorrows;
+      Delia herself, and all the world may view
+      Best in my face where cares have tilled deep furrows.
+    No bays I seek to deck my mourning brow,
+      O clear-eyed rector of the holy hill!
+      My humble accents bear the olive bough
+      Of intercession but to move her will.
+    These lines I use t'unburden mine own heart;
+    My love affects no fame nor 'steems of art.
+
+
+V
+
+    Whilst youth and error led my wandering mind,
+      And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range,
+      All unawares a goddess chaste I find,
+      Diana-like, to work my sudden change.
+    For her, no sooner had mine eye bewrayed,
+      But with disdain to see me in that place,
+      With fairest hand the sweet unkindest maid
+      Casts water-cold disdain upon my face.
+    Which turned my sport into a hart's despair,
+      Which still is chased, while I have any breath,
+      By mine own thoughts set on me by my Fair.
+      My thoughts like hounds pursue me to my death;
+    Those that I fostered of mine own accord,
+    Are made by her to murder thus their lord.
+
+
+VI
+
+    Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair;
+      Her brow shades frowns although her eyes are sunny;
+      Her smiles are lightning though her pride despair;
+      And her disdains are gall, her favours honey;
+    A modest maid, decked 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, designed a saint above.
+    Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes,
+      Live reconciled friends within her brow;
+      And had she pity to conjoin with those,
+      Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?
+    O had she not been fair and thus unkind,
+    My Muse had slept and none had known my mind!
+
+
+VII
+
+    For had she not been fair and thus unkind,
+      Then had no finger pointed at my lightness;
+      The world had never known what I do find,
+      And clouds obscure had shaded still her brightness.
+    Then had no censor's eye these lines surveyed,
+      Nor graver brows have judged my Muse so vain;
+      No sun my blush and error had bewrayed,
+      Nor yet the world had heard of such disdain.
+    Then had I walked with bold erected face;
+      No downcast look had signified my miss;
+      But my degraded hopes with such disgrace
+      Did force me groan out griefs and utter this.
+    For being full, should I not then have spoken,
+    My sense oppressed had failed and heart had broken.
+
+
+VIII
+
+    Thou, poor heart, sacrificed unto the fairest,
+      Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to heaven;
+      And still against her frowns fresh vows repairest,
+      And made thy passions with her beauty even.
+    And you, mine eyes, the agents of my heart,
+      Told the dumb message of my hidden grief;
+      And oft, with careful tunes, with silent art,
+      Did treat the cruel Fair to yield relief.
+    And you, my verse, the advocates of love,
+      Have followed hard the process of my case:
+      And urged that title which doth plainly prove
+      My faith should win, if justice might have place.
+    Yet though I see that nought we do can move,
+    'Tis not disdain must make me cease to love.
+
+
+IX
+
+    If this be love, to draw a weary breath,
+      To paint on floods till the shore cry to th'air;
+      With downward looks still reading on the earth.
+      These sad memorials of my love's despair;
+    If this be love, to war against my soul,
+      Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve,
+      The never-resting stone of care to roll,
+      Still to complain my griefs, whilst none relieve;
+    If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,
+      Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart,
+      My pleasures horror, music tragic notes,
+      Tears in mine eyes and sorrow at my heart;
+    If this be love, to live a living death,
+    Then do I love, and draw this weary breath.
+
+
+X
+
+    Then do I love and draw this weary breath
+      For her, the cruel Fair, within whose brow
+      I written find the sentence of my death
+      In unkind letters wrote she cares not how.
+    Thou power that rul'st the confines of the night,
+      Laughter-loving goddess, worldly pleasures' queen,
+      Intenerate that heart that sets so light
+      The truest love that ever yet was seen;
+    And cause her leave to triumph in this wise
+      Upon the prostrate spoil of that poor heart
+      That serves, a trophy to her conquering eyes,
+      And must their glory to the world impart;
+    Once let her know sh'hath done enough to prove me,
+    And let her pity if she cannot love me!
+
+
+XI
+
+    Tears, vows and prayers gain the hardest hearts,
+      Tears, vows and prayers have I spent in vain;
+      Tears cannot soften flint nor vows convert;
+      Prayers prevail not with a quaint disdain.
+    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.
+    Yet though I cannot win her will with tears,
+      Though my soul's idol scorneth all my vows,
+      Though all my prayers 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.
+
+
+XII
+
+    My spotless love hovers with purest wings
+      About the temple of the proudest frame,
+      Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things;
+      Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.
+    M'ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,
+      Affect no honour but what she can give;
+      My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;
+      I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.
+    For she that can my heart imparadise,
+      Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is.
+      My fortune's wheel's the circle of her eyes,
+      Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.
+    All my life's sweet consists in her alone,
+    So much I love the most unloving one.
+
+
+XIII
+
+    Behold what hap Pygmalion had to frame
+      And carve his proper grief upon a stone!
+      My heavy fortune is much like the same;
+      I work on flint and that's the cause I moan.
+    For hapless lo, even with mine own desires
+      I figured on the table of my heart
+      The fairest form that the world's eye admires,
+      And so did perish by my proper art.
+    And still 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 therefore.
+    O happy he that joyed his stone and art!
+    Unhappy I, to love a stony heart!
+
+
+XIV
+
+    Those snary locks are those same nets, my dear,
+      Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise
+      Love was the flame 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 I do love, adore, and praise the same,
+      That holds, that burns, that wounds in this sort;
+    And list not seek to break, to quench, to heal,
+      The bond, the flame, the wound that festereth so,
+      By knife, by liquor, or by salve to deal;
+      So much I please to perish in my woe.
+    Yet lest long travails be above my strength,
+    Good Delia, loose, quench, heal me, now at length!
+
+
+XV
+
+    If that a loyal heart and faith unfeigned,
+      If a sweet languish with a chaste desire,
+      If hunger-starven thoughts so long retained,
+      Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire;
+    And if a brow with care's characters painted
+      Bewray my love with broken words half spoken
+      To her which sits in my thoughts' 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 love 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 hers, though mine the hurt must be.
+
+
+XVI
+
+    Happy in sleep, waking content to languish,
+      Embracing clouds by night, in daytime mourn,
+      My joys but shadows, touch of truth my anguish,
+      Griefs ever springing, comforts never born;
+    And still expecting when she will relent,
+      Grown hoarse with crying, "mercy, mercy give,"
+      So many vows and prayers having spent
+      That weary of my life I loathe to live;
+    And yet the hydra of my cares renews
+      Still new-born sorrows of her fresh disdain;
+      And still my hope the summer winds pursues,
+      Finding no end nor period of my pain;
+    This is my state, my griefs do touch so nearly,
+    And thus I live because I love her dearly.
+
+
+XVII
+
+    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 consumed with despair.
+    This heart made now the prospective 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 perplexed 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 remained 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
+      Received 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 limned 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 warmed 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 desired 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 disarmed peace deck her and thee;
+    And Muse-foe Mars abroad far fostered be!
+
+
+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-adventured 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.
+
+
+LII
+
+    Let others sing of knights and paladins,
+      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'error of my youth in them appear,
+    Suffice, they show I lived and loved thee, dear.
+
+
+LIII
+
+    As to the Roman that would free his land,
+      His error was his honour and renown;
+      And more the fame of his mistaking hand
+      Than if he had the tyrant overthrown.
+    So Delia, hath mine error made me known,
+      And my deceived attempt deserved more fame,
+      Than if 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 errors should be graced that merit shame,
+      And sin of frowns bring honour to the face.
+    Yet happy Delia that thou wast unkind,
+    Though happier far, if thou would'st change thy mind.
+
+
+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 tuned 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 sweet a touch.
+
+
+LV
+
+    None other fame mine unambitious Muse
+      Affected ever but t'eternise thee;
+      All other honours do my hopes refuse,
+      Which meaner prized 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 theatres;
+      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 song;
+    No other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong.
+
+
+LVI
+
+    Unhappy pen, and ill-accepted lines
+      That intimate in vain my chaste desire,
+      My chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shines,
+      Enkindled by her eyes' celestial fire;
+    Celestial fire, and unrespecting powers
+      Which pity not the wounds made by their might,
+      Showed in these lines, the work of careful hours,
+      The sacrifice here offered to her sight.
+    But since she weighs them not, this rests for me:
+      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 I.
+
+
+LVII
+
+    Lo here the impost of a faith entire,
+      That love doth pay, and her disdain extorts;
+      Behold the message of a chaste desire
+      That tells the world how much my grief imports.
+    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-lived and care succeeding care.
+    This is my state, and Delia's heart is such;
+    I say no more, I fear I said too much.
+
+
+REJECTED SONNETS
+
+[The following four sonnets were Numbers 3, 10, 12 and 16 in Newman's
+edition of 1591. They do not appear in any other editions.]
+
+I
+
+    The only bird alone that nature frames,
+      When weary of the tedious life she lives,
+      By fire dies, yet finds new life in flames,
+      Her ashes to her shape new essence gives.
+    When only I, the only wretched wight,
+      Weary of life that breathes but sorrow's blast,
+      Pursue the flame of such a beauty bright,
+      That burns my heart, and yet my life still lasts.
+    O sovereign light, that with thy sacred flame
+      Consumes my life, revive me after this!
+      And make me, with the happy bird, the same
+      That dies to live, by favour of thy bliss!
+    This deed of thine will show a goddess' power,
+    In so long death to grant one living hour.
+
+
+II
+
+    The sly enchanter when to work his will
+      And secret wrong on some forespoken wight,
+      Frames wax in form to represent aright
+    The poor unwitting wretch he means to kill,
+    And pricks the image framed by magic's skill,
+      Whereby to vex the party day and night;
+      Like hath she done, whose show bewitched my sight
+    To beauty's charms, her lover's blood to spill.
+    For first, like wax she framed me by her eyes,
+      Whose rays sharp-pointed set upon my breast
+    Martyr my life and plague me in this wise
+      With ling'ring pain to perish in unrest.
+      Nought could, save this, my sweetest fair suffice,
+    To try her art on him that loves her best.
+
+
+III
+
+    The tablet of my heavy fortunes here
+      Upon thine altar, Paphian Power, I place.
+      The grievous shipwreck of my travels dear
+      In bulged bark, all perished in disgrace.
+    That traitor Love was pilot to my woe;
+      My sails were hope, spread with my sighs of grief;
+      The twin lights which my hapless course did show
+      Hard by th'inconstant sands of false relief,
+    Were two bright stars which led my view apart.
+      A siren's voice allured me come so near
+      To perish on the marble of her heart,
+      A danger which my soul did never fear.
+    Lo, thus he fares that trusts a calm too much;
+    And thus fare I whose credit hath been such!
+
+
+IV
+
+    Weigh but the cause, and give me leave to plain me,
+      For all my hurt, that my heart's queen hath wrought it;
+      She whom I love so dear, the more to pain me,
+      Withholds my right where I have dearly bought it.
+    Dearly I bought that was so slightly rated,
+      Even with the price of blood and body's wasting;
+      She would not yield that ought might be abated,
+      For all she saw my love was pure and lasting,
+    And yet now scorns performance of the passion,
+      And with her presence justice overruleth.
+      She tells me flat her beauty bears no action;
+      And so my plea and process she excludeth.
+    What wrong she doth, the world may well perceive it,
+    To accept my faith at first, and then to leave it.
+
+
+[This sonnet was Number 8 in Newman's edition of 1591, is found in the
+editions of '92 and '94, but was omitted thereafter.]
+
+V
+
+    Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventured
+      To stop the passage of my vanquished heart;
+      And shut those ways my friendly foe first entered,
+      Hoping thereby to free my better part.
+    And whilst I guard the windows of this fort,
+      Where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice,
+      And thither all my forces do transport,
+      Another passage opens at her voice.
+    Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye,
+      My freedom's tyrant, conquering all by art;
+      But ah! what glory can she get thereby,
+      With three such powers to plague one silly heart!
+    Yet my soul's sovereign, since I must resign,
+    Reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine!
+
+
+[The following two sonnets appear for the first time in the second
+edition of 1592, where they are marked 31 and 30, the 30 being evidently
+a misprint for 32. They are not found in later editions.]
+
+VI
+
+    Like as the spotless ermelin distressed
+      Circumpassed round with filth and lothsome mud,
+      Pines in her grief, imprisoned to her nest,
+      And cannot issue forth to seek her good;
+    So I invironed with a hatefull want,
+      Look to the heavens; the heavens yield forth no grace;
+      I search the earth, the earth I find as scant,
+      I view myself, myself in wofull case.
+    Heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot make
+      A way through want to free my soul from care;
+      But I must pine, and in my pining lurk
+      Lest my sad looks bewray me how I fare.
+    My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure,
+    Thus shades my life so long as wants endure.
+
+
+VII
+
+    My cares draw on mine everlasting night,
+      In horror's sable clouds sets my life's sun;
+      My life's sweet sun, my dearest comfort's light
+      Shall rise no more to me whose day is done.
+    I'll go before unto the myrtle shades,
+      T'attend the presence of my world's dear;
+      And there prepare her flowers that never fades,
+      And all things fit against her coming there.
+    If any ask me why so soon I came,
+      I'll hide her sin and say it was my lot.
+      In life and death I'll tender her good name;
+      My life nor death shall never be her blot.
+    Although this world may seem her deed to blame,
+    The Elysian ghosts shall never know the same.
+
+
+
+
+DIANA
+
+BY
+
+HENRY CONSTABLE
+
+
+
+
+HENRY CONSTABLE
+
+
+The sonnet-cycle in the hands of Henry Constable seems to have been in
+the first place rather a record of a succession of "moment's monuments"
+than a single dramatic scheme, even an embryonic one. The quaint preface
+found in the Harleian transcript of the _Diana_ shows this, and at the
+same time tells what freedom was at that period allowed in the structure
+and dove-tailing of a sonnet-cycle. It is as follows:
+
+     "The Sonnets following are divided into 3 parts, each parte
+     contayning 3 several arguments and every argument 7 sonets.
+
+     "The first parte is of variable affections of love: wherein the
+     first 7 be of the beginning and byrth of his love; the second 7, of
+     the prayse of his mistresse; the thyrd 7, of severall accidents
+     hapning in the tyme of his love.
+
+     "The second is the prayse of perticulars: wherein the first 7 be of
+     the generall honoure of this ile, through the prayses of the heads
+     thereof, the Q. of England and K. of Scots; the second 7 celebrate
+     the memory of perticular ladies whoe the author most honoureth: the
+     thyrd 7 be to the honoure of perticulars, presented upon severall
+     occasions.
+
+     "The thyrd parte is tragicall, conteyning only lamentations:
+     wherein the first 7 be complaynts onlye of misfortunes in love, the
+     second 7, funerall sonets of the death of perticulars; the last 7,
+     of the end and death of his love."
+
+The four sonnets to that distinguished "perticular," the King of
+Scotland, seem to have won for the author a great deal of fame, for
+Bolton mentions one of them as a witness to his opinion that "noble
+Henry Constable was a great master in English tongue, nor had any
+gentleman of our nation a more pure, quick, or higher delivery of
+conceit." The King himself the poet is said to have met personally when
+on his propagandist tours in Scotland; for Constable was an ardent Roman
+Catholic, and spent most of his life in plots for the re-establishment
+of that faith in England. Among the other "perticulars" addressed, the
+Queen is of course bounteously favoured, and a number of ladies of her
+Court are honoured; the series therefore lacks all pretense of unity. In
+fact, the title of the 1594 edition declares that the "excellent
+conceitful sonnets of Henry Constable" are "augmented with divers
+quartorzains of honourable and learned personages;" and Sidney has been
+found to be one of the "honourable and learned personages" whose works
+were laid under contribution to make the book; but since the whole first
+and second decades are the same as in the earlier volume by "H.C." which
+contained also the King James sonnets attributed by numerous
+contemporaries to Henry Constable, and since as yet, beside the ten by
+Sidney, no more of the sonnets have by antiquarian research been traced
+to their sources in the mazes of Elizabethan common-place books, it
+seems but fair to leave the _Diana_ of 1594 in the hands of Constable.
+All three books, the '92 and '94 editions and the manuscript volume,
+show a like taste for orderly arrangement not found in general in the
+sonnet-cycles.
+
+Constable was a Cambridge man and was thirty years old when the _Diana_
+was first printed. He lived until 1613 and bore an excellent reputation
+in his day. He was the friend of Ben Jonson, who speaks of his
+"ambrosaic Muse," of Sidney, Harington, Tofte, and other literary men.
+If toying with the sonnet in _Diana_ seems to indicate a light and
+trifling spirit, we have to yield that with Constable as with Fletcher
+the graver matters of state policy formed the chief interest in life to
+the author. In Constable's case the interest was religious and the poet
+was personally a man of devout feeling. Writing from the Tower, where
+for a time he was detained, he says, "Whether I remain in prison or go
+out, I have learned to live alone with God." At the conclusion of the
+third part of the Harleian Miscellany transcript, the author says: "When
+I had ended this last sonnet, and found that such vain poems as I had by
+idle hours writ, did amount just to the diametrical number 63,
+methought it was high time for my folly to die, and to employ the
+remnant of my wit to other calmer thoughts less sweet and less bitter."
+It was probably in a mood like this that the poet turned from his
+devotion to an earthly love and began to write his "Sonnets in honor of
+God and his Saints." In this group, as in the other, he expresses that
+passion for beauty characteristic of the renaissance, but here he shows
+the lack of a clear conception as to where the line should be drawn
+between earthly and heavenly beauty. In Constable we see the new
+revelation barely emerging from the darkness, the human hand reaching
+out in art toward the divine, but not knowing how to take and hold the
+higher in its grasp. These sonnets are as "conceitful" as the others,
+but the collection illustrates an early effort to turn the poetic energy
+into a new field, to broaden the scope of subject-matter possible in
+sonnet-form. The poet was evidently a close student of the
+sonnet-structure. He used the Italian and the English form in about an
+equal number of cases but he experiments on a large variety of
+rime-arrangements besides.
+
+As to the personality honoured under the name of Diana, there seems to
+be much obscurity. From the sonnet _To his Mistress_, we learn that
+though he addresses several he loves but one.
+
+    "Grace full of grace, though in these verses here
+    My love complains of others than of thee,
+    Yet thee alone I loved, and they by me,
+    Thou yet unknown, only mistaken were."
+
+So he loved her, it seems, while she was "yet unknown," something quite
+possible in the sonneteer's world: and her personality, though shadowed
+under various names, is to the poet a distinct conception. To the honour
+of being this poet's inspirer, there are two claimants; one the Lady
+Rich, the Stella of Sidney, the other the ill-fated Arabella Stuart. It
+is noteworthy that the only one of all the sonnets addressed personally
+to particular ladies that is retained in the edition of 1594, is one to
+Lady Rich. But this sonnet tells us little except that "wished fortune"
+had once made it possible for him to see her in all her beauty of roses
+and lilies, stars and waves of gold: but this might have happened if he
+had once seen that beauteous lady pass along the street in the queen's
+glittering train. Other sonnets to or about the Lady Rich are equally
+uncommunicative; and if the ill-starred Penelope Devereux is the one
+alone that Constable loved, Time has shut the secret tightly in his
+heart and will not give it up.
+
+The other guess is but little nearer to certainty. During the years that
+Constable was pursuing his shadowy schemes, Arabella Stuart was an
+object of admiration and of political jealousy; the house where she
+lived was constantly spied upon, her very tutors were suspected, the
+wildest schemes were formed upon her royal connections, and it would not
+be strange if the heart of our poetical zealot turned toward this star
+of his cause. We may be sure that he would not have been averse to a
+clandestine meeting, for in writing to that arch-plotter, the Countess
+of Shrewsbury, Arabella's doting grandmother, he says: "It is more
+convenient to write unto your Ladyship, than to come unto you or to make
+any other visits either by day or night till I have further liberty
+granted me;" besides this, the Earl of Shrewsbury was distantly related
+to Constable's family, and this fact of kinship may have opened the
+way; while his sonnet to the Countess intimates that his heart had been
+touched by some beauty in her Venus' camp. If not Arabella, who could
+this be?
+
+    "To you then, you, the fairest of the wise,
+      And wisest of the fair I do appeal.
+    A warrior of your camp by force of eyes
+      Me prisoner took, and will with rigour deal,
+    Except you pity in your heart will place,
+      At whose white hands I only seek for grace."
+
+As before, the sonnets addressed to Arabella give no definite
+information. The first is in the usual strain of praise, and closes:
+
+                            "My drift was this,
+    Some earthly shadow of thy worth to show
+      Whose heavenly self above world's reason is."
+
+The second is as follows:
+
+    "Only hope of our age, that virtues dead
+      By your sweet breath should be revived again;
+      Learning discouraged long by rude disdain
+    By your white hands is only cherished.
+    Thus others' worth by you is honoured.
+      But who shall honour yours? Poor wits, in vain
+      We seek to pay the debts which you pertain
+    Till from yourself some wealth be borrowed.
+    Lend some your tongues, that every nation may
+      In his own hear your virtuous praises blaze;
+    Lend them your wit, your judgment, memory,
+      Lest they themselves should not know what to say;
+    And that thou mayst be loved as much as praised,
+    My heart thou mayst lend them which I gave thee."
+
+The last of Constable's sonnets in the edition of 1592 is this
+dedicatory address:
+
+    "My mistress' worth gave wings unto my muse
+      And my muse wings did give unto her name,
+      So, like twin birds, my muse bred with her fame
+    Together now do learn their wings to use.
+    And in this book, which here you may peruse,
+      Abroad they fly, resolved to try the same
+      Adventure in their flight; and thee, sweet dame,
+    Both she and I for our protection choose;
+    I by my vow, and she by farther right
+      Under your phoenix (wing) presume to fly;
+    That from all carrion beaks in safety might
+      By one same wing be shrouded, she and I.
+      O happy, if I might but flitter there
+    Where you and she and I should be so near."
+
+The value of this author's praise, however, is somewhat impaired by the
+extravagances in certain sonnets where, for instance, he honours a lady
+whose soul, he says, was "endued in her lifetime with infinite
+perfections as her divine poems do testify," when she on earth did sing
+poet-wise angels in heaven prayed for her company, and when she died,
+her "fair and glittering rays increased the light of heaven;" where
+again he calls on the Countess of Essex to revenge the death of her
+first husband, Sir Philip Sidney, upon the Spanish people by murdering
+them _en masse_ with her eyes, and where he calls the Countess of
+Shrewsbury "chieftain of Venus's host," and places her crowned in heaven
+beside the Virgin Mary. Constable's zealous publisher was not far wrong
+when he claimed that in this poet "conceit first claimed his birthright
+to enjoy," and since we do not find either in the sonnets to Lady Rich
+or in those to Lady Arabella any special tone of sincerity that leads us
+to have confidence in our conjecture, we shall be compelled to leave
+this puzzle unsolved.
+
+
+
+
+DIANA
+
+UNTO HER MAJESTY'S SACRED HONOURABLE MAIDS
+
+
+    Eternal Twins! that conquer death and time,
+      Perpetual advocates in heaven and earth!
+      Fair, chaste, immaculate, and all divine,
+      Glorious alone, before the first man's birth;
+    Your twofold charities, celestial lights,
+      Bow your sun-rising eyes, planets of joy,
+      Upon these orphan poems; in whose rights
+      Conceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy.
+    If, pitiful, you shun the song of death,
+      Or fear the stain of love's life-dropping blood,
+      O know then, you are pure; and purer faith
+      Shall still keep white the flower, the fruit, and bud.
+    Love moveth all things. You that love, shall move
+    All things in him, and he in you shall love.
+
+RICHARD SMITH.[A]
+
+[Footnote A: Richard Smith was the publisher of the 1594 edition of the
+_Diana_.]
+
+
+TO HIS MISTRESS
+
+    Grace full of grace, though in these verses here
+      My love complains of others than of thee,
+      Yet thee alone I loved, and they by me,
+    Thou yet unknown, only mistaken were.
+    Like him which feels a heat now here now there,
+      Blames now this cause now that, until he see
+      The fire indeed from whence they caused be;
+    Which fire I now do know is you, my dear,
+    Thus diverse loves dispersed in my verse
+      In thee alone for ever I unite,
+    And fully unto thee more to rehearse;
+      To him I fly for grace that rules above,
+    That by my grace I may live in delight,
+      Or by his grace I never more may love.
+
+
+TO HIS ABSENT DIANA
+
+    Severed from sweet content, my live's sole light,
+      Banished by over-weening wit from my desire,
+      This poor acceptance only I require:
+    That though my fault have forced me from thy sight
+    Yet that thou would'st, my sorrows to requite,
+      Review these sonnets, pictures of thy praise;
+      Wherein each woe thy wondrous worth doth raise,
+    Though first thy worth bereft me of delight.
+      See them forsaken; for I them forsook,
+    Forsaken first of thee, next of my sense;
+      And when thou deign'st on their black tears to look,
+    Shed not one tear, my tears to recompence;
+      But joy in this, though fate 'gainst me repine,
+      My verse still lives to witness thee divine.
+
+
+THE FIRST DECADE
+
+I
+
+_Only of the birth and beginning of love_
+
+    Resolved to love, unworthy to obtain,
+      I do no favour crave; but, humble wise,
+      To thee my sighs in verse I sacrifice,
+    Only some pity and no help to gain.
+    Hear then, and as my heart shall aye remain
+      A patient object to thy lightning eyes,
+      A patient ear bring thou to thund'ring cries;
+    Fear not the crack, when I the blow sustain.
+      So as thine eye bred mine ambitious thought,
+    So shall thine ear make proud my voice for joy.
+      Lo, dear, what wonders great by thee are wrought,
+    When I but little favour do enjoy!
+      The voice is made the ear for to rejoice,
+      And your ear giveth pleasure to my voice.
+
+
+II
+
+_An excuse to his mistress for resolving to love so worthy a creature_
+
+    Blame not my heart for flying up so high,
+      Sith thou art cause that it this flight begun;
+      For earthly vapours drawn up by the sun,
+    Comets become, and night suns in the sky.
+    Mine humble heart, so with thy heavenly eye
+      Drawn up aloft, all low desires doth shun;
+      Raise thou me up, as thou my heart hast done,
+    So during night in heaven remain may I.
+      I say again, blame not my high desire,
+    Sith of us both the cause thereof depends.
+      In thee doth shine, in me doth burn a fire,
+    Fire draws up other, and itself ascends.
+      Thine eye a fire, and so draws up my love;
+      My love a fire, and so ascends above.
+
+
+III
+
+_Of the birth of his love_
+
+    Fly low, dear love, thy sun dost thou not see?
+      Take heed, do not so near his rays aspire;
+      Lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire,
+    It burn thy wings, as it hath burned me.
+    Thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be,
+      And so cannot consumed be with fire;
+      And one is hope, the other is desire,
+    And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee.
+      A muse's words made thee with hope to fly,
+    An angel's face desire hath begot,
+      Thyself engendered by a goddess' eye;
+    Yet for all this, immortal thou art not.
+      Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art,
+      Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart.
+
+
+IV
+
+_Of his mistress, upon occasion of a friend of his which dissuaded him
+from loving_
+
+    A friend of mine, pitying my hopeless love,
+      Hoping by killing hope my love to stay,
+      "Let not," quoth he, "thy hope, thy heart betray;
+    Impossible it is her heart to move."
+    But sith resolved love cannot remove
+      As long as thy divine perfections stay,
+      Thy godhead then he sought to take away.
+    Dear, seek revenge and him a liar prove;
+      Gods only do impossibilities.
+    "Impossible," saith he, "thy grace to gain."
+      Show then the power of divinities
+    By granting me thy favour to obtain.
+      So shall thy foe give to himself the lie;
+      A goddess thou shall prove, and happy I!
+
+
+V
+
+_Of the conspiracy of his lady's eyes and his own to engender love_
+
+    Thine eye the glass where I behold my heart,
+      Mine eye the window through the which thine eye
+      May see my heart, and there thyself espy
+    In bloody colours how thou painted art.
+    Thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart;
+      Mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level by
+      To hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry.
+    Mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart.
+      Thine eye a fire is both in heat and light;
+    Mine eye of tears a river doth become.
+      O that the water of mine eye had might
+    To quench the flames that from thine eye doth come,
+      Or that the fires kindled by thine eye,
+      The flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry.
+
+
+VI
+
+_Love's seven deadly sins_
+
+    Mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught.
+      First _proud_, sith it presumed to look so high.
+      A watchman being made, stood gazing by,
+    And _idle_, took no heed till I was caught.
+    And _envious_, bears envy that by thought
+      Should in his absence be to her so nigh.
+      To kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye;
+    And so consent gave to a _murder_ wrought.
+      And _covetous_, it never would remove
+    From her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight.
+      _Unchaste_, a baud between my heart and love.
+    A _glutton_ eye, with tears drunk every night.
+      These sins procured have a goddess' ire,
+      Wherefore my heart is damned in love's sweet fire.
+
+
+VII
+
+_Of the slander envy gives him for so highly praising his mistress_
+
+    Falsely doth envy of your praises blame
+      My tongue, my pen, my heart of flattery,
+      Because I said there was no sun but thee.
+    It called my tongue the partial trump of fame,
+    And saith my pen hath flattered thy name,
+      Because my pen did to my tongue agree;
+      And that my heart must needs a flatterer be,
+    Which taught both tongue and pen to say the same.
+      No, no, I flatter not when thee I call
+    The sun, sith that the sun was never such;
+      But when the sun thee I compared withal,
+    Doubtless the sun I flattered too much.
+      Witness mine eyes, I say the truth in this,
+      They have seen thee and know that so it is.
+
+
+VIII
+
+_Of the end and death of his love_
+
+    Much sorrow in itself my love doth move,
+      More my despair to love a hopeless bliss,
+      My folly most to love whom sure to miss
+    O help me, but this last grief to remove;
+    All pains, if you command, it joy shall prove,
+      And wisdom to seek joy. Then say but this,
+      "Because my pleasure in thy torment is,
+    I do command thee without hope to love!"
+      So when this thought my sorrow shall augment
+    That my own folly did procure my pain,
+      Then shall I say to give myself content,
+    "Obedience only made me love in vain.
+      It was your will, and not my want of wit;
+      I have the pain, bear you the blame of it!"
+
+
+IX
+
+_Upon occasion of her walking in a garden_
+
+    My lady's presence makes the roses red,
+      Because to see her lips they blush with shame.
+      The lily's leaves for envy pale became,
+    And her white hands in them this envy bred.
+    The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,
+      Because the sun's and her power is the same.
+      The violet of purple colour came,
+    Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.
+      In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take;
+    From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;
+      The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
+    Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.
+      The rain wherewith she watereth the flowers,
+      Falls from mine eyes which she dissolves in showers.
+
+
+X
+
+_To the Lady Rich_
+
+    Heralds at arms do three perfections quote,
+      To wit, most fair, most rich, most glittering;
+      So when those three concur within one thing,
+    Needs must that thing of honour be a note.
+    Lately I did behold a rich fair coat,
+      Which wished fortune to mine eyes did bring.
+      A lordly coat, yet worthy of a king,
+    In which one might all these perfections note.
+      A field of lilies, roses proper bare;
+    Two stars in chief; the crest was waves of gold.
+      How glittering 'twas, might by the stars appear;
+    The lilies made it fair for to behold.
+      And rich it was as by the gold appeareth;
+      But happy he that in his arms it weareth!
+
+
+THE SECOND DECADE
+
+I
+
+_Of the end and death of his love_
+
+    If true love might true love's reward obtain,
+      Dumb wonder only might speak of my joy;
+      But too much worth hath made thee too much coy,
+    And told me long ago I sighed in vain.
+    Not then vain hope of undeserved gain
+      Hath made me paint in verses mine annoy,
+      But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoy
+    Thy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain.
+      See then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear,
+    By looking on my verse. For pain in verse,
+      Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear.
+        So if thou would'st my verses' meaning see,
+    Expound them thus, when I my love rehearse:
+      "None loves like he!" that is, "None fair like me!"
+
+
+II
+
+_How he encouraged himself to proceed in love, and to hope for favour in
+the end at love's hands_
+
+    It may be, love my death doth not pretend,
+      Although he shoots at me, but thinks it fit
+      Thus to bewitch thee for thy benefit,
+    Causing thy will to my wish to condescend.
+    For witches which some murder do intend,
+      Do make a picture and do shoot at it;
+      And in that part where they the picture hit,
+    The party's self doth languish to his end.
+      So love, too weak by force thy heart to taint,
+      Within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint;
+    Suffering therein his arrows to abide,
+      Only to th'end he might by witches' art,
+    Within my heart pierce through thy picture's side,
+      And through thy picture's side might wound my heart.
+
+
+III
+
+_Of the thoughts he nourished by night when she was retired to bed_
+
+    The sun, his journey ending in the west,
+      Taketh his lodging up in Thetis' bed;
+      Though from our eyes his beams be banished,
+    Yet with his light th' antipodes be blest.
+    Now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest,
+      Which me too oft of rest hath hindered,
+      And whiter skin with white sheet covered,
+    And softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest,
+      Then I, O sun of suns! and light of lights!
+    Wish me with those antipodes to be,
+      Which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights.
+        Well, though the night both cold and darksome is,
+    Yet half the day's delight the night grants me,
+        I feel my sun's heat, though his light I miss.
+
+
+IV
+
+_Of his lady's praise_
+
+    Lady, in beauty and in favour rare,
+      Of favour, not of due, I favour crave.
+      Nature to thee beauty and favour gave;
+    Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare.
+    Nor when on me bestowed your favours are,
+      Less favour in your face you shall not have;
+      If favour then a wounded soul may save,
+    Of murder's guilt, dear Lady, then beware.
+      My loss of life a million fold were less
+    Than the least loss should unto you befall;
+      Yet grant this gift; which gift when I possess,
+      Both I have life and you no loss at all.
+        For by your favour only I do live,
+        And favour you may well both keep and give.
+
+
+V
+
+_Of the end and death of his love_
+
+    My reason absent did mine eyes require
+      To watch and ward and such foes to descry
+      As they should ne'er my heart approaching spy;
+    But traitor eyes my heart's death did conspire,
+    Corrupted with hope's gifts; let in desire
+      To burn my heart; and sought no remedy,
+      Though store of water were in either eye,
+    Which well employed, might well have quenched the fire.
+      Reason returned; love and fortune made
+    Judges, to judge mine eyes to punishment.
+      Fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayed
+    From wished sight, adjudged them banishment;
+      Love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found,
+      Adjudged them in tears for to be drowned.
+
+
+VI
+
+_Of several complaints of misfortune in love only_
+
+    Wonder it is and pity is't that she
+      In whom all beauty's treasure we may find,
+      That may unrich the body and the mind,
+    Towards the poor should use no charity.
+    My love has gone a begging unto thee.
+      And if that beauty had not been more kind
+      That pity, long ere this he had been pined;
+      But beauty is content his food to be.
+      O pity have when such poor orphans beg!
+    Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back;
+      And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg,
+    Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack.
+      And yet though blind he beauty can behold,
+      And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold.
+
+
+VII
+
+_Of several complaints of misfortune in love only_
+
+    Pity refusing my poor love to feed,
+      A beggar starved for want of help he lies;
+      And at your mouth, the door of beauty, cries,
+    That thence some alms of sweet grants might proceed.
+    But as he waiteth for some almes deed,
+      A cherry tree before the door he spies.
+      "O dear," quoth he, "two cherries may suffice.
+    Two only may save life in this my need."
+      But beggars, can they nought but cherries eat?
+    Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son,
+      And never feedeth but on dainty meat,
+    Else need he not to pine, as he hath done;
+      For only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree
+      Can give food to my love and life to me.
+
+
+VIII
+
+_Of his lady's veil wherewith she covered her_
+
+    The fowler hides as closely as he may
+      The net, where caught the silly bird should be,
+      Lest he the threatening poison should but see,
+    And so for fear be forced to fly away.
+    My lady so, the while she doth assay
+      In curled knots fast to entangle me,
+      Put on her veil, to th' end I should not flee
+    The golden net wherein I am a prey.
+      Alas, most sweet! what need is of a net
+    To catch a bird that is already ta'en?
+      Sith with your hand alone you may it get,
+    For it desires to fly into the same.
+        What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap,
+        When of themselves they fly into your lap?
+
+
+IX
+
+_To his lady's hand upon occasion of her glove which in her absence he
+kissed_
+
+    Sweet hand, the sweet but cruel bow thou art,
+      From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;
+      So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,
+    Bearing my breast the print of every dart.
+    Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart,
+      Where I in living torments never die.
+      His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I
+    All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.
+      Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I,
+    The bow that shot these shafts a relic is;
+      I mean the hand, which is the reason why
+    So many for devotion thee would kiss:
+        And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine,
+        This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine.
+
+
+X
+
+_Of his lady's going over early to bed, so depriving him too soon of her
+sight_
+
+    Fair sun, if you would have me praise your light,
+      When night approacheth wherefore do you fly?
+      Time is so short, beauties so many be,
+    As I have need to see them day and night,
+    That by continual view my verses might
+      Tell all the beams of your divinity;
+      Which praise to you and joy should be to me,
+    You living by my verse, I by your sight;
+      I by your sight, and not you by my verse,
+      Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse?
+    No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb,
+      Your beauty should be seen and your fame known;
+    For by the wind which from my sighs do come,
+        Your praises round about the world are blown.
+
+
+THE THIRD DECADE
+
+I
+
+_Complaint of his lady's sickness_
+
+    Uncivil sickness, hast thou no regard,
+      But dost presume my dearest to molest,
+      And without leave dar'st enter in that breast
+    Whereto sweet love approach yet never dared?
+    Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared;
+      Too bitter such revenge of my unrest!
+      Although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest,
+    My wrongs seek not revenge, they crave reward
+      Cease, sickness, cease in her then to remain;
+    And come and welcome, harbour thou in me
+      Whom love long since hath taught to suffer in!
+        So she which hath so oft my pain increased,
+    O God, that I might so revenged be,
+        By my poor pain might have her pain released!
+
+
+[The Sonnets numbered II to VIII in this Decade are by Sidney, and were
+printed among the _Certaine Sonets_ in the 1598 edition of the
+_Arcadia_.]
+
+
+IX
+
+    Woe to mine eyes, the organs of mine ill;
+      Hate to my heart, for not concealing joy;
+      A double curse upon my tongue be still,
+      Whose babbling lost what else I might enjoy!
+    When first mine eyes did with thy beauty joy,
+      They to my heart thy wondrous virtues told;
+      Who, fearing lest thy beams should him destroy,
+      Whate'er he knew, did to my tongue unfold.
+    My tell-tale tongue, in talking over bold,
+      What they in private council did declare,
+      To thee, in plain and public terms unrolled;
+      And so by that made thee more coyer far.
+    What in thy praise he spoke, that didst thou trust;
+    And yet my sorrows thou dost hold unjust.
+
+
+X
+
+    Of an Athenian young man have I read,
+      Who on blind fortune's picture doated so,
+      That when he could not buy it to his bed,
+      On it he gazing died for very woe.
+    My fortune's picture art thou, flinty dame,
+      That settest golden apples to my sight;
+      But wilt by no means let me taste the same.
+      To drown in sight of land is double spite.
+    Of fortune as thou learn'dst to be unkind,
+      So learn to be unconstant to disdain.
+      The wittiest women are to sport inclined.
+      Honour is pride, and pride is nought but pain.
+    Let others boast of choosing for the best;
+    'Tis substances not names must make us blest.
+
+
+THE FOURTH DECADE
+
+I
+
+_Of the end and death of his love_
+
+    Needs must I leave and yet needs must I love;
+      In vain my wit doth tell in verse my woe;
+      Despair in me, disdain in thee, doth show
+    How by my wit I do my folly prove.
+    All this my heart from love can never move.
+      Love is not in my heart. No, Lady, no,
+      My heart is love itself. Till I forego
+    My heart I never can my love remove.
+      How can I then leave love? I do intend
+      Not to crave grace, but yet to wish it still;
+      Not to praise thee, but beauty to commend;
+    And so, by beauty's praise, praise thee I will;
+        For as my heart is love, love not in me,
+        So beauty thou, beauty is not in thee.
+
+
+II
+
+_Of the prowess of his lady_
+
+    Sweet sovereign, since so many minds remain
+      Obedient subjects at thy beauty's call,
+      So many hearts bound in thy hairs as thrall,
+    So many eyes die with one look's disdain,
+    Go, seek the honour that doth thee pertain,
+      That the Fifth Monarchy may thee befall!
+      Thou hast such means to conquer men withal,
+    As all the world must yield or else be slain.
+      To fight, thou need'st no weapons but thine eyes,
+    Thine hair hath gold enough to pay thy men,
+      And for their food thy beauty will suffice;
+        For men and armour, Lady, care have none;
+    For one will sooner yield unto thee then
+        When he shall meet thee naked all alone.
+
+
+III
+
+_Of the discouragement he had to proceed in love, through the multitude
+of his lady's perfections and his own lowness_
+
+    When your perfections to my thoughts appear,
+      They say among themselves, "O happy we,
+      Whichever shall so rare an object see!"
+    But happy heart, if thoughts less happy were!
+    For their delights have cost my heart full dear,
+      In whom of love a thousand causes be,
+      And each cause breeds a thousand loves in me,
+    And each love more than thousand hearts can bear.
+      How can my heart so many loves then hold,
+    Which yet by heaps increase from day to day?
+      But like a ship that's o'ercharged with gold,
+    Must either sink or hurl the gold away.
+        But hurl not love; thou canst not, feeble heart;
+        In thine own blood, thou therefore drowned art!
+
+
+IV
+
+    Fools be they that inveigh 'gainst Mahomet,
+      Who's but a moral of love's monarchy.
+      But a dull adamant, as straw by jet,
+      He in an iron chest was drawn on high.
+    In midst of Mecca's temple roof, some say,
+      He now hangs without touch or stay at all.
+      That Mahomet is she to whom I pray;
+      May ne'er man pray so ineffectual!
+    Mine eyes, love's strange exhaling adamants,
+      Un'wares, to my heart's temple's height have wrought
+      The iron idol that compassion wants,
+      Who my oft tears and travails sets at nought.
+    Iron hath been transformed to gold by art;
+    Her face, limbs, flesh and all, gold; save her heart.
+
+
+V
+
+    Ready to seek out death in my disgrace,
+      My mistress 'gan to smooth her gathered brows,
+      Whereby I am reprieved for a space.
+      O hope and fear! who half your torments knows?
+    It is some mercy in a black-mouthed judge
+      To haste his prisoner's end, if he must die.
+      Dear, if all other favour you shall grudge,
+      Do speedy execution with your eye;
+    With one sole look you leave in me no soul!
+      Count it a loss to lose a faithful slave.
+      Would God, that I might hear my last bell toll,
+      So in your bosom I might dig a grave!
+    Doubtful delay is worse than any fever,
+    Or help me soon, or cast me off for ever!
+
+
+VI
+
+_Of the end and death of his love_
+
+    Each day, new proofs of new despair I find,
+      That is, new deaths. No marvel then, though I
+      Make exile my last help; to th'end mine eye
+    Should not behold the death to me assigned.
+    Not that from death absence might save my mind,
+      But that it might take death more patiently;
+      Like him, the which by judge condemned to die,
+    To suffer with more ease, his eyes doth blind.
+      Your lips in scarlet clad, my judges be,
+    Pronouncing sentence of eternal "No!"
+      Despair, the hangman that tormenteth me;
+        The death I suffer is the life I have.
+    For only life doth make me die in woe,
+    And only death I for my pardon crave.
+
+
+VII
+
+    The richest relic Rome did ever view
+      Was' Caesar's tomb; on which, with cunning hand,
+      Jove's triple honours, the three fair Graces, stand,
+    Telling his virtues in their virtues true.
+    This Rome admired; but dearest dear, in you
+      Dwelleth the wonder of the happiest land,
+      And all the world to Neptune's furthest strand,
+    For what Rome shaped hath living life in you.
+      Thy naked beauty, bounteously displayed,
+    Enricheth monarchies of hearts with love;
+      Thine eyes to hear complaints are open laid;
+      Thine eyes' kind looks requite all pains I prove;
+        That of my death I dare not thee accuse;
+        But pride in me that baser chance refuse.
+
+
+VIII
+
+    Why thus unjustly, say, my cruel fate,
+      Dost thou adjudge my luckless eyes and heart,
+      The one to live exiled from that sweet smart,
+    Where th' other pines, imprisoned without date?
+    My luckless eyes must never more debate
+      Of those bright beams that eased my love apart;
+      And yet my heart, bound to them with love's dart,
+    Must there dwell ever to bemoan my state.
+      O had mine eyes been suffered there to rest,
+    Often they had my heart's unquiet eased;
+      Or had my heart with banishment been blest,
+    Mine eye with beauty never had been pleased!
+      But since these cross effects hath fortune wrought,
+      Dwell, heart, with her; eyes, view her in my thought!
+
+
+[The Sonnet numbered IX is by Sidney, and is found in the _Certaine
+Sonets_ printed in the 1598 edition of the _Arcadia_.]
+
+
+X
+
+    Hope, like the hyaena, coming to be old,
+      Alters his shape, is turned into despair.
+      Pity my hoary hopes, Maid of clear mould!
+      Think not that frowns can ever make thee fair.
+    What harm is it to kiss, to laugh, to play?
+      Beauty's no blossom, if it be not used.
+      Sweet dalliance keeps the wrinkles long away;
+      Repentance follows them that have refused.
+    To bring you to the knowledge of your good,
+      I seek, I sue. O try and then believe!
+      Each image can be chaste that's carved of wood.
+      You show you live, when men you do relieve.
+    Iron with wearing shines; rust wasteth treasure.
+    On earth but love there is no other pleasure.
+
+
+THE FIFTH DECADE
+
+I
+
+    Ay me, poor wretch, my prayer is turned to sin!
+      I say, "I love!" My mistress says "'Tis lust!"
+      Thus most we lose where most we seek to win.
+      Wit will make wicked what is ne'er so just.
+    And yet I can supplant her false surmise.
+      Lust is a fire that for an hour or twain
+      Giveth a scorching blaze and then he dies;
+      Love a continual furnace doth maintain.
+    A furnace! Well, this a furnace may be called;
+      For it burns inward, yields a smothering flame,
+      Sighs which, like boiled lead's smoking vapour, scald.
+      I sigh apace at echo of sighs' name.
+    Long have I served; no short blaze is my love.
+    Hid joys there are that maids scorn till they prove.
+
+
+II
+
+    I do not now complain of my disgrace,
+      O cruel fair one! fair with cruel crost;
+      Nor of the hour, season, time, nor place;
+      Nor of my foil, for any freedom lost;
+    Nor of my courage, by misfortune daunted;
+      Nor of my wit, by overweening struck;
+      Nor of my sense, by any sound enchanted;
+      Nor of the force of fiery-pointed hook;
+    Nor of the steel that sticks within my wound;
+      Nor of my thoughts, by worser thoughts defaced;
+      Nor of the life I labour to confound.
+      But I complain, that being thus disgraced,
+    Fired, feared, frantic, fettered, shot through, slain,
+    My death is such as I may not complain.
+
+
+III
+
+    If ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves,
+      As speaks a spirit in a man possest,
+      In me her spirit speaks. My soul it moves,
+      Whose sigh-swoll'n words breed whirlwinds in my breast;
+    Or like the echo of a passing bell,
+      Which sounding on the water seems to howl;
+      So rings my heart a fearful heavy knell,
+      And keeps all night in consort with the owl.
+    My cheeks with a thin ice of tears are clad,
+      Mine eyes like morning stars are bleared and red.
+      What resteth then but I be raging mad,
+      To see that she, my cares' chief conduit-head,
+    When all streams else help quench my burning heart,
+    Shuts up her springs and will no grace impart.
+
+
+IV
+
+    You secret vales, you solitary fields,
+      You shores forsaken and you sounding rocks!
+      If ever groaning heart hath made you yield,
+      Or words half spoke that sense in prison locks,
+    Then 'mongst night shadows whisper out my death.
+      That when myself hath sealed my lips from speaking,
+      Each tell-tale echo with a weeping breath,
+      May both record my truth and true love's breaking.
+    You pretty flowers that smile for summer's sake,
+      Pull in your heads before my wat'ry eyes
+      Do turn the meadows to a standing lake,
+      By whose untimely floods your glory dies!
+    For lo, mine heart, resolved to moistening air,
+    Feedeth mine eyes which double tear for tear.
+
+
+V
+
+    His shadow to Narcissus well presented,
+      How fair he was by such attractive love!
+      So if thou would'st thyself thy beauty prove,
+    Vulgar breath-mirrors might have well contented,
+    And to their prayers eternally consented,
+      Oaths, vows and sighs, if they believe might move;
+      But more thou forc'st, making my pen approve
+    Thy praise to all, least any had dissented.
+      When this hath wrought, thou which before wert known
+    But unto some, of all art now required,
+      And thine eyes' wonders wronged, because not shown
+    The world, with daily orisons desired.
+      Thy chaste fair gifts, with learning's breath is blown,
+    And thus my pen hath made thy sweets admired.
+
+
+VI
+
+    I am no model figure, or sign of care,
+      But his eternal heart's-consuming essence,
+      In whom grief's commentaries written are,
+      Drawing gross passion into pure quintessence,
+    Not thine eye's fire, but fire of thine eye's disdain,
+      Fed by neglect of my continual grieving,
+      Attracts the true life's spirit of my pain,
+      And gives it thee, which gives me no relieving.
+    Within thine arms sad elegies I sing;
+      Unto thine eyes a true heart love-torn lay I:
+      Thou smell'st from me the savours sorrows bring;
+      My tears to taste my truth to touch display I.
+    Lo thus each sense, dear fair one, I importune;
+    But being care, thou flyest me as ill fortune.
+
+
+VII
+
+    But being care, thou flyest me as ill fortune;--
+      Care the consuming canker of the mind!
+      The discord that disorders sweet hearts' tune!
+      Th' abortive bastard of a coward mind!
+    The lightfoot lackey that runs post by death,
+      Bearing the letters which contain our end!
+      The busy advocate that sells his breath,
+      Denouncing worst to him, is most his friend!
+    O dear, this care no interest holds in me;
+      But holy care, the guardian of thy fair,
+      Thine honour's champion, and thy virtue's fee,
+      The zeal which thee from barbarous times shall bear,
+    This care am I; this care my life hath taken.
+    Dear to my soul, then leave me not forsaken!
+
+
+VIII
+
+    Dear to my soul, then, leave, me not forsaken!
+      Fly not! My heart within thy bosom sleepeth;
+      Even from myself and sense I have betaken
+      Me unto thee for whom my spirit weepeth,
+    And on the shore of that salt teary sea,
+      Couched in a bed of unseen seeming pleasure,
+      Where in imaginary thoughts thy fair self lay;
+      But being waked, robbed of my life's best treasure,
+    I call the heavens, air, earth, and seas to hear
+    My love, my truth, and black disdained estate,
+      Beating the rocks with bellowings of despair,
+      Which still with plaints my words reverberate,
+    Sighing, "Alas, what shall become of me?"
+    Whilst echo cries, "What shall become of me?"
+
+
+IX
+
+    Whilst echo cries, "What shall become of me?"
+      And desolate, my desolations pity,
+      Thou in thy beauty's carack sitt'st to see
+      My tragic downfall, and my funeral ditty.
+    No timbrel, but my heart thou play'st upon,
+      Whose strings are stretched unto the highest key;
+      The diapason, love; love is the unison;
+      In love my life and labours waste away.
+    Only regardless to the world thou leav'st me,
+      Whilst slain hopes, turning from the feast of sorrow,
+      Unto despair, their king, which ne'er deceives me,
+      Captives my heart, whose black night hates the morrow,
+    And he in truth of my distressed cry
+    Plants me a weeping star within mine eye.
+
+
+X
+
+    Prometheus for stealing living fire
+      From heaven's king, was judged eternal death;
+      In self-same flame with unrelenting ire
+      Bound fast to Caucasus' low foot beneath.
+    So I, for stealing living beauty's fire
+      Into my verse that it may always live,
+      And change his forms to shapes of my desire,
+      Thou beauty's queen, self sentence like dost give.
+    Bound to thy feet in chains of life I lie;
+      For to thine eyes I never dare aspire;
+      And in thy beauty's brightness do I fry,
+      As poor Prometheus in the scalding fire;
+    Which tears maintain as oil the lamp revives;
+    Only my succour in thy favour lies.
+
+
+THE SIXTH DECADE
+
+I
+
+    One sun unto my life's day gives true light.
+      One moon dissolves my stormy night of woes.
+      One star my fate and happy fortune shows.
+    One saint I serve, one shrine with vows I dight.
+    One sun transfix'd hath burnt my heart outright,
+      One moon opposed my love in darkness throws.
+      One star hath bid my thoughts my wrongs disclose.
+    Saints scorn poor swains, shrines do my vows no right.
+      Yet if my love be found a holy fire,
+    Pure, unstained, without idolatry,
+      And she nathless in hate of my desire,
+    Lives to repose her in my misery,
+      My sun, my moon, my star, my saint, my shrine,
+      Mine be the torment but the guilt be thine!
+
+
+II
+
+    To live in hell, and heaven to behold;
+      To welcome life, and die a living death;
+      To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold;
+      To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath;
+    To treat a maze that never shall have end;
+      To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears;
+      To climb a hill, and never to descend;
+      Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears;
+    To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree;
+      To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw;
+      To live accurs'd whom men hold blest to be,
+      And weep those wrongs which never creature saw:
+    If this be love, if love in these be founded,
+    My heart is love, for these in it are grounded.
+
+
+III
+
+    A carver, having loved too long in vain,
+      Hewed out the portraiture of Venus' son
+      In marble rock, upon the which did rain
+      Small drizzling drops, that from a fount did run:
+    Imagining the drops would either wear
+      His fury out, or quench his living flame;
+      But when he saw it bootless did appear,
+      He swore the water did augment the same.
+    So I, that seek in verse to carve thee out,
+      Hoping thy beauty will my flame allay,
+      Viewing my verse and poems all throughout,
+      Find my will rather to my love obey,
+    That with the carver I my work do blame,
+    Finding it still th' augmenter of my flame.
+
+
+IV
+
+    Astronomers the heavens do divide
+      Into eight houses, where the god remains;
+      All which in thy perfections do abide.
+      For in thy feet, the queen of silence reigns;
+    About thy waist Jove's messenger doth dwell,
+      Inchanting me as I thereat admire;
+      And on thy dugs the queen of love doth tell
+      Her godhead's power in scrolls of my desire;
+    Thy beauty is the world's eternal sun;
+      Thy favours force a coward's heart to dare,
+      And in thy hairs Jove and his riches won.
+      Thy frowns hold Saturn; thine's the fixed stars.
+    Pardon me then, divine, to love thee well,
+    Since thou art heaven, and I in heaven would dwell!
+
+
+V
+
+    Weary of love, my thoughts of love complained,
+      Till reason told them there was no such power,
+      And bade me view fair beauty's richest flower,
+    To see if there a naked boy remained.
+    Dear, to thine eyes, eyes that my soul hath pained,
+      Thoughts turned them back in that unhappy hour
+      To see if love kept there his royal bower,
+    For if not there, then no place him contained.
+      There was he not, nor boy, nor golden bow;
+    Yet as thou turned thy chaste fair eye aside,
+      A flame of fire did from thine eyelids go,
+    Which burnt my heart through my sore wounded side;
+      Then with a sigh, reason made thoughts to cry,
+      "There is no god of love, save that thine eye!"
+
+
+VI
+
+    Forgive me, dear, for thundering on thy name;
+      Sure 'tis thyself that shows my love distrest.
+      For fire exhaled in freezing clouds possessed,
+    Warring for way, makes all the heavens exclaim.
+    Thy beauty so, the brightest living flame,
+      Wrapt in my cloudy heart, by winter prest,
+      Scorning to dwell within so base a nest,
+    Thunders in me thy everlasting flame.
+      O that my heart might still contain that fire!
+    Or that the fire would always light my heart!
+      Then should'st thou not disdain my true desire,
+    Or think I wronged thee to reveal to my smart;
+      For as the fire through freezing clouds doth break,
+      So not myself but thou in me would'st speak.
+
+
+VII
+
+    My heart mine eye accuseth of his death,
+      Saying his wanton sight bred his unrest;
+      Mine eye affirms my heart's unconstant faith
+      Hath been his bane, and all his joys repressed.
+    My heart avows mine eye let in the fire,
+      Which burns him with an everliving light.
+      Mine eye replies my greedy heart's desire
+      Let in those floods, which drown him day and night.
+    Thus wars my heart which reason doth maintain,
+      And calls my eye to combat if he dare,
+      The whilst my soul impatient of disdain,
+      Wrings from his bondage unto death more near;
+    Save that my love still holdeth him in hand;
+    A kingdom thus divided cannot stand!
+
+
+VIII
+
+    Unhappy day, unhappy month and season,
+      When first proud love, my joys away adjourning,
+      Poured into mine eye to her eye turning
+    A deadly juice, unto my green thought's reason.
+    Prisoner I am unto the eye I gaze on;
+      Eternally my love's flame is in burning;
+      A mortal shaft still wounds me in my mourning;
+    Thus prisoned, burnt and slain, the spirit, soul and reason.
+      What tides me then since these pains which annoy me,
+    In my despair are evermore increasing?
+    The more I love, less is my pain's releasing;
+      That cursed be the fortune which destroys me,
+    The hour, the month, the season, and the cause,
+    When love first made me thrall to lovers' laws.
+
+
+IX
+
+    Love hath I followed all too long, nought gaining;
+      And sighed I have in vain to sweet what smarteth,
+      But from his brow a fiery arrow parteth,
+    Thinking that I should him resist not plaining.
+    But cowardly my heart submiss remaining,
+      Yields to receive what shaft thy fair eye darteth.
+      Well do I see thine eye my bale imparteth,
+    And that save death no hope I am detaining.
+    For what is he can alter fortune's sliding?
+      One in his bed consumes his life away,
+      Other in wars, another in the sea;
+    The like effects in me have their abiding;
+      For heavens avowed my fortune should be such,
+      That I should die by loving far too much.
+
+
+X
+
+    My God, my God, how much I love my goddess,
+      Whose virtues rare, unto the heavens arise!
+      My God, my God, how much I love her eyes
+      One shining bright, the other full of hardness!
+    My God, my God, how much I love her wisdom,
+      Whose works may ravish heaven's richest maker!
+      Of whose eyes' joys if I might be partaker
+      Then to my soul a holy rest would come.
+    My God, how much I love to hear her speak!
+      Whose hands I kiss and ravished oft rekisseth,
+      When she stands wotless whom so much she blesseth.
+      Say then, what mind this honest love would break;
+    Since her perfections pure, withouten blot,
+    Makes her beloved of thee, she knoweth not?
+
+
+THE SEVENTH DECADE
+
+I
+
+    The first created held a joyous bower,
+      A flowering field, the world's sole wonderment,
+      High Paradise, from whence a woman's power
+      Enticed him to fall to endless banishment.
+    This on the banks of Euphrates did stand,
+      Till the first Mover, by his wondrous might,
+      Planted it in thine eyes, thy face, thy hands,
+      From whence the world receives his fairest light.
+    Thy cheeks contain choice flowers; thy eyes, two suns;
+      Thy hands, the fruit that no life blood can stain;
+      And in thy breath, that heavenly music wons,
+      Which, when thou speak'st, angels their voices strain.
+    As from the first thy sex exiled me,
+    So to this next let me be called by thee!
+
+
+II
+
+    Fair grace of graces, muse of muses all,
+      Thou Paradise, thou only heaven I know!
+      What influence hath bred my hateful woe,
+    That I from thee and them am forced to fall?
+    Thou falled from me, from thee I never shall,
+      Although my fortunes thou hast brought so low;
+      Yet shall my faith and service with thee go,
+    For live I do, on heaven and thee to call.
+    Banish'd all grace, no graces with me dwell;
+      Compelled to muse, my muses from me fly;
+      Excluded heaven, what can remain but hell?
+      Exiled from paradise, in hate I lie,
+    Cursing my stars; albeit I find it true,
+    I lost all these when I lost love and you.
+
+
+III
+
+    What viewed I, dear, when I thine eyes beheld?
+      Love in his glory? No, him Thyrsis saw,
+      And stood the boy, whilst he his darts did draw,
+    Whose painted pride to baser swains he telled.
+    Saw I two suns? That sight is seen but seld.
+      Yet can their brood that teach the holy law
+      Gaze on their beams, and dread them not a straw,
+    Where princely looks are by their eyes repelled.
+      What saw I then? Doubtless it was Amen,
+      Armed with strong thunder and a lightning's flame,
+      Who bridegroom like with power was riding then,
+    Meaning that none should see him when he came.
+      Yet did I gaze; and thereby caught the wound
+      Which burns my heart and keeps my body sound.
+
+
+IV
+
+    When tedious much and over weary long,
+      Cruel disdain reflecting from her brow,
+      Hath been the cause that I endured such wrong
+      And rest thus discontent and weary now.
+    Yet when posterity in time to come,
+      Shall find th' uncancelled tenour of her vow,
+      And her disdain be then confessed of some,
+      How much unkind and long, I find it now,
+    O yet even then--though then will be too late
+      To comfort me; dead, many a day, ere then--
+      They shall confess I did not force her heart;
+      And time shall make it known to other men
+    That ne'er had her disdain made me despair,
+    Had she not been so excellently fair.
+
+
+V
+
+    Had she not been so excellently fair,
+      My muse had never mourned in lines of woe;
+      But I did too inestimable weigh her,
+      And that's the cause I now lament me so.
+    Yet not for her contempt do I complain me:
+      Complaints may ease the mind, but that is all;
+      Therefore though she too constantly disdain me,
+      I can but sigh and grieve, and so I shall.
+    Yet grieve I not because I must grieve ever;
+      And yet, alas, waste tears away, in vain;
+      I am resolved truly to persever,
+      Though she persisteth in her old disdain.
+    But that which grieves me most is that I see
+    Those which most fair, the most unkindest be.
+
+
+VI
+
+    Thus long imposed to everlasting plaining,
+      Divinely constant to the worthiest fair,
+      And moved by eternally disdaining,
+      Aye to persever in unkind despair:
+    Because now silence wearily confined
+      In tedious dying and a dumb restraint,
+      Breaks forth in tears from mine unable mind
+      To ease her passion by a poor complaint;
+    O do not therefore to thyself suggest
+      That I can grieve to have immured so long
+      Upon the matter of mine own unrest;
+      Such grief is not the tenour of my song,
+      That 'bide so zealously so bad a wrong.
+    My grief is this; unless I speak and plain me,
+    Thou wilt persever ever to disdain me.
+
+
+VII
+
+    Thou wilt persever ever to disdain me;
+      And I shall then die, when thou will repent it.
+      O do not therefore from complaint restrain me,
+      And take my life from me, to me that lent it!
+    For whilst these accents, weepingly exprest
+      In humble lines of reverentest zeal,
+      Have issue to complaint from mine unrest,
+      They but thy beauty's wonder shall reveal;
+    And though the grieved muse of some other lover,
+      Whose less devotions knew but woes like mine,
+      Would rather seek occasion to discover
+      How little pitiful and how much unkind,
+      They other not so worthy beauties find.
+    O, I not so! but seek with humble prayer,
+    Means how to move th' unmercifullest fair.
+
+
+VIII
+
+    As draws the golden meteor of the day
+      Exhaled matter from the ground to heaven,
+      And by his secret nature, there to stay
+      The thing fast held, and yet of hold bereaven;
+    So by th' attractive excellence and might,
+      Born to the power of thy transparent eyes,
+      Drawn from myself, ravished with thy delight,
+      Whose dumb conceits divinely sirenise,
+    Lo, in suspense of fear and hope upholden,
+      Diversely poised with passions that pain me,
+      No resolution dares my thoughts embolden,
+      Since 'tis not I, but thou that dost sustain me.
+    O if there's none but thou can work my woe,
+    Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so?
+
+
+IX
+
+    Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so,
+      Whose humbled vows with sorrowful appeal
+      Do still persist, and did so long ago
+      Intreat for pity with so pure a zeal?
+    Suffice the world shall, for the world can say
+      How much thy power hath power, and what it can;
+      Never was victor-hand yet moved to slay
+      The rendered captive, or the yielding man.
+    Then, O, why should thy woman-thought impose
+      Death and disdain on him that yields his breath,
+      To free his soul from discontent and woes,
+      And humble sacrifice to a certain death?
+    O since the world knows what the power can do,
+    What were't for thee to save and love me too?
+
+
+X
+
+    I meet not mine by others' discontent,
+      For none compares with me in true devotion;
+      Yet though my tears and sighs to her be spent,
+      Her cruel heart disdains what they do motion.
+    Yet though persisting in eternal hate,
+      To aggravate the cause of my complaining,
+      Her fury ne'er confineth with a date,
+      I will not cease to love, for her disdaining.
+    Such puny thoughts of unresolved ground,
+      Whose inaudacity dares but base conceit,
+      In me and my love never shall be found.
+      Those coward thoughts unworthy minds await.
+    But those that love well have not yet begun;
+    Persever ever and have never done!
+
+
+THE EIGHTH DECADE
+
+I
+
+    Persever ever and have never done,
+      You weeping accent of my weary song!
+      O do not you eternal passions shun,
+      But be you true and everlasting long!
+    Say that she doth requite you with disdain;
+      Yet fortified with hope, endure your fortune;
+      Though cruel now she will be kind again;
+      Such haps as those, such loves as yours importune.
+    Though she protests the faithfullest severity
+      Inexecrable beauty is inflicting,
+      Kindness in time will pity your sincerity,
+      Though now it be your fortune's interdicting.
+    For some can say, whose loves have known like passion,
+    "Women are kind by kind, and coy for fashion."
+
+
+II
+
+    Give period to my matter of complaining,
+      Fair wonder of our time's admiring eye,
+      And entertain no more thy long disdaining,
+      Or give me leave at last that I may die.
+    For who can live, perpetually secluded
+      From death to life, that loathes her discontent?
+      Lest by some hope seducively deluded,
+      Such thoughts aspire to fortunate event;
+    But I that now have drawn mal-pleasant breath
+      Under the burden of thy cruel hate,
+      O, I must long and linger after death,
+      And yet I dare not give my life her date;
+    For if I die and thou repent t' have slain me,
+    'Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me.
+
+
+III
+
+    'Twill grieve me more than if thou didst disdain me,
+      That I should die; and thou, because I die so.
+      And yet to die, it should not know to pain me,
+      If cruel beauty were content to bid so.
+    Death to my life, life to my long despair
+      Prolonged by her, given to my love and days,
+      Are means to tell how truly she is fair,
+      And I can die to testify her praise.
+    Yet not to die, though fairness me despiseth,
+      Is cause why in complaint I thus persever;
+      Though death me and my love inparadiseth,
+      By interdicting me from her for ever.
+    I do not grieve that I am forced to die,
+    But die to think upon the reason why.
+
+
+IV
+
+    My tears are true. Though others be divine,
+      And sing of wars and Troy's new rising frame,
+      Meeting heroic feet in every line,
+      That tread high measures in the scene of fame,
+    And I, though disaccustoming my muse,
+      And sing but low songs in an humble vein,
+      May one day raise my style as others use,
+      And turn Elizon to a higher strain.
+    When re-intombing from oblivious ages
+      In better stanzas her surviving wonder,
+      I may opposed against the monster rage
+      That part desert and excellence asunder;
+    That she though coy may yet survive to see,
+    Her beauty's wonder lives again in me.
+
+
+V
+
+_Conclusion of the whole_
+
+    Sometimes in verse I praised, sometimes in verse sighed;
+      No more shall pen with love and beauty mell,
+      But to my heart alone my heart shall tell
+    How unseen flames do burn it day and night,
+    Lest flames give light, light bring my love to sight,
+      And my love prove my folly to excel.
+      Wherefore my love burns like the fire of hell,
+    Wherein is fire and yet there is no light;
+      For if one never loved like me, then why
+    Skill-less blames he the thing he doth not know?
+    And he that so hath loved should favour show,
+      For he hath been a fool as well as I.
+    Thus shall henceforth more pain, more folly have;
+    And folly past, may justly pardon crave.
+
+
+A CALCULATION UPON THE BIRTH OF AN HONOURABLE LADY'S DAUGHTER, BORN IN
+THE YEAR 1588 AND ON A FRIDAY
+
+    Fair by inheritance, whom born we see
+      Both in the wondrous year and on the day
+      Wherein the fairest planet beareth sway,
+    The heavens to thee this fortune doth decree!
+    Thou of a world of hearts in time shall be
+      A monarch great, and with one beauty's ray
+      So many hosts of hearts thy face shall slay,
+    As all the rest for love shall yield to thee,
+      But even as Alexander when he knew
+      His father's conquests wept, lest he should leave
+      No kingdom unto him for to subdue:
+    So shall thy mother thee of praise bereave;
+      So many hearts already she hath slain,
+      As few behind to conquer shall remain.
+
+
+SONNETS FROM THE MANUSCRIPT EDITION, NOT FOUND IN THAT OF 1594
+
+I
+
+_Of the sudden surprising of his heart, and how unawares he was caught_
+
+    Delight in your bright eyes my death did breed,
+      As light and glittering weapons babes allure
+      To play with fire and sword, and so procure
+    Then to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed,
+    Thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed;
+      Yet shall my ashes and my blood assure
+      Thy beauty's fame forever to endure;
+    For thy fame's life from my death doth proceed;
+      Because my heart to ashes burned giveth
+    Life to thy fame, thou right a phoenix art,
+      And like a pelican thy beauty liveth
+    By sucking blood out of my breast and heart.
+      Lo why with wonder we may thee compare
+      Unto the pelican and phoenix rare!
+
+
+II
+
+_An exhortation to the reader to come and see his mistress's beauty_
+
+    Eyes curious to behold what nature can create,
+      Come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see,
+      Causing by true report our next posterity
+    Curse fortune for that they were born too late!
+    Come then and come ye all, come soon lest that
+      The time should be too short and men too few should be;
+      For all be few to write her least part's history,
+    Though they should ever write and never write but that.
+      Millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit,
+    Millions speak of her, millions write of her hand.
+    The whole eye on the lip I do not understand;
+      Millions too few to praise but some one part of it,
+    As either of her eye or lip or hand to write,
+    The light or black, the taste or red, the soft or white.
+
+
+III
+
+_Of the excellency of his lady's voice_
+
+    Lady of ladies, the delight alone
+      For which to heaven earth doth no envy bear;
+      Seeing and hearing thee, we see and hear
+    Such voice, such light, as never sung nor shone.
+    The want of heaven I grant yet we may moan,
+      Not for the pleasure of the angels there,
+      As though in face or voice they like thee were,
+    But that they many be, and thou but one.
+      The basest notes which from thy voice proceed,
+      The treble of the angels do exceed,
+    So that I fear their choir to beautify,
+      Lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine.
+    Lo, when I hear thee sing, the reason why
+      Sighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine!
+
+
+IV
+
+_Of her excellency both in singing and instruments_
+
+    Not that thy hand is soft, is sweet, is white,
+      Thy lips sweet roses, breast sweet lily is,
+      That love esteems these three the chiefest bliss
+    Which nature ever made for lips' delight;
+    But when these three to show their heavenly might
+      Such wonders do, devotion then for this
+      Commandeth us with humble zeal to kiss
+    Such things as work miracles in our sight.
+    A lute of senseless wood, by nature dumb,
+      Touched by thy hand doth speak divinely well;
+    And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes do come
+        To my dead heart, the which new life do give.
+      Of greater wonders heard we never tell
+        Than for the dumb to speak, the dead to live.
+
+
+V
+
+_Of the envy others bear to his lady for the former perfections_
+
+    When beauty to the world vouchsafes this bliss,
+      To show the one whose other there is not,
+      The whitest skins red blushing shame doth blot,
+    And in the reddest cheeks pale envy is.
+    The fair and foul come thus alike by this;
+      For when the sun hath our horizon got,
+      Venus herself doth shine no more, God wot,
+    Than the least star that takes the light from his.
+      The poor in beauty thus content remain
+    To see their jealous cause revenged in thee,
+      And their fair foes afflicted with like pain.
+    Lo, the clear proof of thy divinity;
+      For unto God is only due this praise
+      The highest to pluck down, the low to raise!
+
+
+VI
+
+_To his mistress, upon occasion of a Petrarch he gave her, showing her
+the reason why the Italian commenters dissent so much in the exposition
+thereof_
+
+    Miracle of the world! I never will deny
+      That former poets praise the beauty of their days;
+      But all those beauties were but figures of thy praise,
+    And all those poets did of thee but prophesy.
+    Thy coming to the world hath taught us to descry
+      What Petrarch's Laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays.
+      Lo, why th' Italians, yet which never saw thy rays,
+    To find out Petrarch's sense such forged glosses try!
+    The beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheld
+      But revelations were within his surest heart
+    By which in parables thy coming he foretold;
+        His songs were hymns of thee, which only now before
+      Thy image should be sung; for thou that goddess art
+        Which only we without idolatry adore.
+
+
+VII
+
+_Complaint of misfortune in love only_
+
+    Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more
+      In one day now then I did in a year;
+      Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,
+    And wounded now, I was but pricked before.
+    No marvel then, though more than heretofore
+      I weep and sigh; how can great wounds be there
+      Where moisture runs not out? and ever, where
+    The fire is great, of smoke there must be store.
+    My heart was hitherto but like green wood,
+      Which must be dried before it will burn bright;
+        My former love served but my heart to dry;
+    Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good:
+      For now it burneth clear, and shall give light
+        For all the world your beauty to espy.
+
+
+VIII
+
+_Complaint of his lady's melancholiness_
+
+    If that one care had our two hearts possessed,
+      Or you once (felt) what I long suffered,
+      Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's stead
+    The rigour of itself for mine unrest.
+    Then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest,
+      And weight of grief sway down thy troubled head;
+      Then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed,
+    And then thy heart should pant upon my breast.
+    But when that other cares thy heart do seize,
+      Alas, what succour gain I then by this,
+    But double grief for thine and mine unease?
+        Yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart,
+      And so art taught by me what pity is,
+        Perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart.
+
+
+IX
+
+    Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart,
+      And of that comfort do myself bereave,
+      Which both I did deserve and did receive,
+    Triumph not over much in this my smart.
+    Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heart
+      For fear just cause of mourning should conceive,
+      Lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceive
+    Which like unto the weather changing art.
+    For in foul weather birds sing often will
+      In hope of fair, and in fair time will cease,
+    For fear fair time should not continue still;
+        So they may mourn which have thy heart possessed
+      For fear of change, and hope of change may ease
+        Their hearts whom grief of change doth now molest.
+
+
+X
+
+    If ever any justly might complain
+      Of unrequited service, it is I;
+      Change is the thanks I have for loyalty,
+    And only her reward is her disdain;
+    So as just spite did almost me constrain,
+      Through torment her due praises to deny,
+      For he which vexed is with injury
+    By speaking ill doth ease his heart of pain.
+      But what, shall torture make me wrong her name?
+      No, no, a pris'ner constant thinks it shame,
+      Though he (were) racked his first truth to gainsay.
+        Her true given praise my first confession is;
+      Though her disdain do rack me night and day,
+        This I confessed, and will deny in this.
+
+
+Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. London & Edinburgh
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles, by
+Samuel Daniel and Henry Constable
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELIZABETHAN SONNET-CYCLES ***
+
+***** This file should be named 18842.txt or 18842.zip *****
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