Delia

            I

Unto the boundless Ocean of thy beauty

Runs this poor river, charg'd 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 charg'd soul,

Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care:

Here have I summ'd my sighs, here I enroll

How they were spent for thee; look what they are.

Look on the dear expences of my youth,

And see how just I reckon with thine eyes:

Examine well they beauty in 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 that hard heart, beg till you have mov'd her,

And tell th'unkind how dearly I have lov'd her.

            III

If so it hap this offspring of my care,

These fatal Anthems, sad and mournful Songs,

Come to their view, who like afflicted are;

Let them yet sigh their own, and moan my wrongs.

But untouch'd hearts, with unaffected eye,

Approach not to behold so great distress:

Clear-sighted you, soon note what is awry,

Whilst blinded ones mine errors never guess.

You blinded souls whom youth and errors lead,

You outcast Eaglets, dazzled with your sun:

Ah 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[s], 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 limn'd for outward hue,

For that no colors can depaint my sorrows;

Delia herself and all the world may view

Best in my face, how cares hath till'd deep forrows.

No Bays I seek to deck my mourning brow,

O clear-eyed Rector of the holy Hill;

My humble accents crave the Olive bough,

Of her mild pity and relenting 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 wand'ring mind

And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range,

All unawares a goddes chaste I find,

Diana-like, to work my sudden change.

For her no sooner had my view bewray'd,

But with disdain to see me in that place;

With fairest hand, the sweet unkindest maid

Casts water-cold disdain upon my face.

Which turn'd my sport into a hart's despair,

Which still is chas'd, whilst 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 foster'd 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 favors honey.

A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honor,

Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love,

The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,

Sacred on earth, design'd a saint above.

Chastity and Beauty, which are 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

O had she not been fair and thus unknid,

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 survey'd,

Nor graver brows have judg'd my Muse so vain;

No sun my blush and error had bewray'd,

Nor yet the world had heard of such disdain.

Then had I walk'd 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 not I then have spoken,

My sense oppress'd had fail'd, and heart had broken.

            VIII

Thou poor heart sacrific'd unto the fairest,

Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to heav'n;

And still against her frowns fresh vows repairest,

And made thy passions with her beauty ev'n.

And you mine eyes, the agents of my heart,

Told the dumb message of my hidden grief,

And oft with careful turns, with silent art,

Did treat the cruel Fair to yield relief.

And you my verse, the advocates of love,

Have follow'd hard the process of my case,

And urg'd 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 her,

'Tis not disdain must make me leave to love her.

            IX

If this be love, to draw a weary breath,

Paint on floods, till the shore, cry to th'air,

With downward looks still reading on the earth,

The 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 me,

The never-resting stone of care to roll,

Still to complain my griefs, and none relieve me.

If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,

Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart,

My pleasures horror, music tragic notes,

Tears in my eyes, and sorrow at my heart.

If this be love, to live a living death,

O then love I and draw this weary breath.

            X

O then 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, wrought she cares not how.

O thou that rul'st the confines of the night,

Laughter-loving Goddess, worldly pleasures' Queen,

Intenerate* that heart that sets so light             [to soften; to mollify]

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 music 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 win the hardest heart:

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 favor 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 white 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 honor, but what she can give me;

My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;

I weigh no comfort unless she relieve me.

For she that can my heart imparadize

Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is:

My Fortune's wheel, 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, ev'n with mine own desires,

I figur'd on the table of my heart

The fairest form, 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 breath unto my rest:

Hard is her heart, and woe is me, therefore.

O happy he that joy'd his stone and art,

Unhappy I to love a stony heart.

            XIV

Those amber 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.

Stong is the net, and fervent is the flame;

Deep is the wound, my sighs do well report;

Yet do I love, adore, and praise the same,

That holds, that burns, that wounds me in this sort.

And list not seek to break, to quench, to heal,

The bond, the flame, the wound which fest'reth 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 unfeign'd,

If a sweet languish with a chaste desire,

If hunger-starven thought so long retain'd,

Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire,

And if a brow with care's characters painted

Bewrays my love, with broken words half spoken

To her that sits in my thought's 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 honor lies,

And she th'unkindest maid still scorns the same,

Let this suffice: the world yet 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;

All things I loath save her and mine own anguish,

Pleas'd in my hurt inured to live forlorn.

Nought do I crave but love, death, or my Lady,

Hoarse with crying mercy, mercy yet my merit;

So man vows and prayers e'er made I,

That now at length t'yield, mere pity were it.

But still the Hydra of my cares renewing,

Revives new sorrows of her fresh disdaining;

Still must I go the summer winds pursuing,

Finding no end nor period of my paining.

Wail all my life, 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 onto 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 endeavor,

Such honor unto cruelty to give?

If her defects have purchas'd her this fame,

What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love?

If this her worst, how should her best enflame?

What passions would her milder favors move?

Favors (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 thought's-maze, to my confusion tending,

Still have I liv'd 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 favors 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 Citherea's son those arcs of love,

Bequeath the heav'ns the stars that I adore,

And to th'Orient do thy pearls remove.

Yield thy hands' pride unto th'ivory white,

T'Arabian odors give thy breathing sweet,

Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright,

To Thetis give the honor of thy feet.

Let Venus have thy graces, her resign'd,

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 breath 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, and 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 learn'd out of those eyes.

Samuel Daniel

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