English

Loe heere the impost of a faith unfayning,
That love hath paid, and her disdaine extorted:
Behold the message of my just complaining,
That shewes the world how much my griefe imported
These tributarie plaints fraught with desire
I send those eyes, the cabinets of love,
The Paradice whereto my hopes aspire,
From out this hell, which mine afflictions prove:

Unhappy pen and ill accepted papers,
That intimate in vaine my chast desires,
My chast desires, (the ever burning Tapers)
Inkindled by her eyes' celestiall fires:
Celestiall fires and unrespecting powers,
That deigne not viewe the glory of your might,
In humble lines the worke of carefull howres,
The sacrifice I offer to her sight.
But sith she scornes her owne, this rests for mee,
I'le mone my selfe, and hide the wrong I have;
And so content mee that her frownes should be
To m'infant stile the cradle, and the grave.

None other fame myne unambitious Muse
Affected ever but t'eternize thee:
All other honours doe my hopes refuse,
Which meaner priz'd and momentarie be
For God forbid I should my papers blot,
With mercynarie lines, with servile pen;
Praysing vertues in them that have them not,
Basely attending on the hopes of men
No, no, my verse respects nor Thames nor Theaters,

Like as the Lute that joyes or els dislikes,
As is his arte that playes upon the same,
So sounds my Muse according as shee strikes
On my hart strings, high tun'd unto her fame
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
Which heere I yeeld in lamentable wise,
A wailing deskant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports give honour to her eyes.
Els harshe my stile, untunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that praiseth not her name:
If any pleasing relish heere I use,
Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.

As to the Roman that would free his Land,
His error was his honour and renowne;
And more the fame of his mistaking hand,
Then if he had the Tyrant over-throwne:
So Delia , hath mine errour made me knowne,
And my deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame
Then if I had the victory mine owne,
And thy hard hart had yeelded up the same:
And so likewise, renowned is thy blame,

Let others sing of Knights and Palladines
In aged accents and untimely words,
Paint shadowes in imaginarie lines,
Which wel the reach of their high wits records:
But I must sing of thee and those faire eyes;
Autentique shall my verse in time to come,
When yet th'unborne shall say, " Loe, where she lyes,
Whose beauty made him speak that else was dombe
These are the Arkes, the Trophies I erect,
That fortifie thy name against old age;
And these thy sacred vertues must protect
Against the darke, and Time's consuming rage

Care-charmer Sleepe, sonne of the sable Night,
Brother to death, in silent darknes borne;
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With darke forgetting of my care's returne:
And let the day be time enough to mourne
The shipwrack of my ill-adventred youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to waile their scorne,
Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease dreames, th'imag'ry of our day desires,
To modell forth the passions of the morrow:
Never let rysing Sunne approve you lyers,

Drawne with th'attractive vertue of her eyes,
My toucht hart turnes it to that happie cost,
My joyfull North, where all my fortune lyes,
The levell of my hopes desired most;
There, where my Delia , fairer than the Sunne,
Deckt with her youth whereon the world doth smile,
Joyes in that honour which her eyes have wonne,
Th'eternall wonder of our happy Ile.

O Whether (poore forsaken) wilt thou goe,
To goe from sorrow, and thine owne distresse,
When every place presents like face of woe,
And no remove can make thy sorrowes lesse?
Yet goe (forsaken,) leave these woods, these playnes,
Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves
Thee and thy love forlorne, and both disdaines;
And of both, wrongfull deemes, and ill conceaves
Seeke out some place, and see if any place
Can give the least release unto they griefe:
Convay thee from the thought of thy disgrace,

I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would reede
Lynes of delight, whereon her youth might smyle:
Flowers have a tyme before they come to seed,
And shee is young and now must sport the while.
Ah sport (sweet Maide) in season of these yeeres,
And learne to gather flowers before they wither:
And where the sweetest blossoms first appeares,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smyles to cleere the clowded ayre,
And calme the tempest which my sighes do rayse:
Pittie and smiles doe best become the faire,