Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles Part 4

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 pa.s.sions 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; Hoa.r.s.e 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 G.o.d 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.