Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles Part 2

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 prspective 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.

x.x.x

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!

x.x.xI

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 t.i.tle of my wrong, Caused by those cruel beams that were so strong.