Delia

            XXI

If Beauty thus be clouded with a frown,

That pity shines no comfort to my bliss,

And vapors of disdain so overfrown,

That my life's light thus wholy darken'd 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 ruthless eyes,

Vexing with untun'd moan her dainty ears;

If I have lov'd her dearer than my breath,

My breath that calls the heav'ns to witness it,

And still must hold her dear till after death;

And if that all this cannot move a whit,

Yet let her say that she hath done me wrong,

To use me thus and know I lov'd so long.

            XXII

Come Time, the anchor-hold of my desire,

My last resort whereto my hopes appeal,

Cause once the date of her disdain t'expire;

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 my 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 smokes of mine annoy;

These tears, which heat of sacred flame distills;

Are these due tributes that my faith doth pay

Unto the tyrant whose kindness kills.

I sacrifice my youth and blooming years

At her proud feet, and she respects it not;

My flower untimely's wither'd with my tears

And winter woes, for spring of youth unfit.

She thinks a look may recompence my care,

And so with looks prolongs my long-lookt 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,

Trait'rous to me and faithful to my love;

A thousand times it promis'd 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,

Straight way 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 whom no sun ever joy'd;

Her fairest eyes do penetrate so deep

That thus I live both day and night annoy'd.

But since the sweetest root doth yield thus much,

Her praise from my complaint I may not part;

I love th'effect for that the cause is such;

I'll praise her face and blame her flinty heart,

Whilst that we make the world admire at us,

Her for disdain, and me for longing thus.

            XXVII

Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventur'd

To stop the passage of my vanquisht heart,

And shut those ways my friendly foe first enter'd,

Hoping thereby to free my better part.

And whilst I guard these 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 tyrants 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.

            XXVIII

Reign in 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 stated.

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 reign'd with such a heavy hand.

What can I do by yield, and yield I do,

And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too.

            XXIX

Whilst by her eyes pursu'd, my poor heart flew it,

Into the sacred bosom of my dearest;

She there in that sweet sanctuary slew it,

Where it presum'd its safety to be nearest.

My priviledge of faith could not protect it,

That was with blood and three years' witness sign'd;

In all which time she never could suspect it,

For well she saw my love, and how I pin'd.

And yet no comfort would her brow reveal me,

No lightning look, which falling hopes erecteth.

What boots to laws of succour to appeal me?

Ladies and tyrants never laws respecteth.

Then there I die, where hop'd I to have liven,

And by that hand, which better might have given.

            XXX

Still in the trace of my tormented thought,

My ceaseless cares must march on to my death;

Thy least regard to dearly have i bought,

Who to my comfort never deign'st a breath.

Why should'st thou stop thine ears now to my cries,

Whose eyes were open ready to oppress me?

Why shut'st thou not the cause whence all did rise,

Or hear me now, and seek how to redress?

Injurious Delia, yet I'll love thee still,

Whilst that I breathe in sorrow of my smart;

I'll tell the world that I deserv'd but ill,

And blame myself for to excuse thy heart.

Then judge who sins the greater of us twain:

I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.

            XXXI

Oft do I muse whether my Delia's eyes

Are eyes, or else two fair bright 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 fixt or wand'ring stars are they,

Whose influence rule the Orb of my poor heart;

Fixt sure they are, but wan'ring make me stray,

In endless errors whence I cannot part.

Stars then, not eyes, move yet with milder view

Your sweet aspect on him that honors you.

            XXXII

        To M. P.

Like as the spotless Ermelin distress'd,

Circumpass'd round with filth and loathsome mud,

Pines in her grief, imprison'd in her nest,

And cannot issue forth to seek her good,

So I environ'd with a hateful want

Look to the heav'ns, the heav'ns yield forth no grace;

I search the earth, the earth I find as scant;

I view my self, my self in woeful case.

Heav'n nor earth will not, my self cannot work

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.

            XXXIII

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,

Will rise no more to me whose day is done.

I go before unto the Myrtle shades,

To 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,

Th'Elisean ghosts shall never know the same.

            XXXIV

The star of my mishap impos'd this paining,

To spend the April of my years in wailing

That never found my fortune but in waning,

With still fresh cares my present woes assailing.

Yet her I blame not, though she might have blest me,

But my desire's wings, so high aspiring,

Now melted with the sun that hath possess'd me,

Down do I fall from off my high desiring,

And in my fall do cry for speedy speedy.

No pitying eye looks back upon my mourning,

No help I find when now most favor need I;

Th'ocean of my tears must drown me burning.

And this my death shall christen her anew,

And give the cruel Fair her title do.

            XXXV

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 honor of the fall the more.

For who gets wealth that puts not from the shore?

Danger hath honor, 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 honor, dies without a name,

And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.

And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot

To have attempted, though attain'd thee not.

            XXXVI

Raising my hopes on hills of high desire,

Thinking to scale the heaven of her heart,

My slender means presum'd too high a part;

Her thunder of disdain forc'd 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 brook'd not poor souls should come so nigh her.

Yet I protest my high aspiring 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,

Fram'd my desires fit for her eyes to kill.

            XXXVII

O why doth Delia credit so her glass,

Gazing her beauty deign'd her by the skies,

And doth not rather look on him (alas)

Whose state best shows the force of murd'ring eyes?

The broken tops of lofty trees declare

The fury of a mercy-wanting storm;

And of what force your wounding graces are,

Upon my self you best may find the form.

Then leave your glass, and gaze your self on me,

That Mirror shows what power is in your face;

To view your form too much may danger be:

Narcissus chang'd t'a flower in such a case.

And you are chang'd, but not t'a Hyacint;

I fear your eye hath turn'd your heart to flint.

            XXXVIII

I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,

When 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 which deckt her pride so long.

When, if she grieve to gaze her in her glass

Which then presents her winter-wither'd 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.

            XXXIX

Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown Rose,

The image of thy blush and Summer's honor,

Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose

That pure sweet Beauty Time bestows upon her.

No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;

She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the Fair;

So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.

No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,

Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now;

Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,

Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

O let not then such riches waste in vain,

But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.

            XL

But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again,

Now whilst thy May hath fill'd thy lap with flowers;

Now, whilst thy beauty bears without a stain,

Now use thy Summer smiles ere Winter lours.

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 hide it most and cover lowest.

Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was;

When once they find her flower, her glory pass.

Samuel Daniel

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