English

Whilst youth and error led my wandring minde,
And sette my thoughts in heedles waies to range,
All unawares a Goddesse chaste I finde,
( Diana -like) to worke my suddaine change.
For her no sooner had mine eye bewraid,
But with disdaine to see me in that place,
With fairest hand, the sweet unkindest maid
Casts water-cold disdaine upon my face:
Which turn'd my sport into a Hart's despaire,

These plaintive verse, the Posts of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slowe regard,
Beare not report of any slender fire,
Forging a griefe to winne a fame's reward.
Nor are my passions lymned for outward hewe,
For that no colours can depaint my sorrows:
Delia her selfe, and all the world, may view
Best in my face, where cares hath till'd deepe furrows.

If so it hap this of-spring of my care,
These fatall Antheames, sad and mournful songs,
Come to their view who like afflicted are,
Ah let them sigh theyr owne, and mone my wrongs.
But untoucht harts, with unaffected eye,
Approch not to behold so great distresse:
Cleer-sighted, you soone note what is awry,
Whilst blinded ones mine errours never gesse.
You blinded soules whom youth and errors leade,
You outcast Eaglets, dazeled with your sunne,
Ah you, and none but you my sorrowes reade,

Goe, wayling verse, the Infants of my love,
Minerva -lyke, brought foorth without a mother:
Present the Image of the cares I prove,
Witnes your Father's griefe exceedes all other
Sigh out a story of her cruell deedes,
With interrupted accents of dispaire:
A monument that whosoever reedes,
May justly praise, and blame my loveless Fayre
Say her disdaine hath dryed up my blood,

Unto the boundles Ocean of thy beautie
Runs this poore river, charg'd with streams of zeale,
Returning thee the trybute of my duty,
Which heere my love, my youth, my plaints reveale.
Heere I unclaspe the booke of my charg'd soule,
Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care:
Heere have I summ'd my sighes; heere I enrole
How they were spent for thee; looke what they are
Looke on the deere expences of my youth,
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes:
Examine well thy beauty with my truth,

Lo here the impost of a faith entire
Which loue doth pay, and her disdaine extorts:
Behold the message of a chast desire
Which tells the world how much my griefe imports.
These tributary passions, beauties due,
I send those eyes the cabinets of loue:
That Cruelty her selfe might grieue to view
Th'affliction her vnkind disdaine doth moue.
And how I liue cast downe from off all myrth,
Pensiue alone, onely but with Dispaire:
My ioyes abortiue, perish in their byrth.
My griefes long liu'd, and care succeeding care

Vnhappy Pen, and ill-accepted lines
That intimate in vaine my chaste desire:
My chaste desire, which from darke sorrow shines,
Inkindled by her eyes celestiall fire.
Celestiall fire, and vnrespecting powres
Which pitty not the wounds made by their might,
Shew'd in these lines, the worke of carefull houres,
The sacrifice here offred to her sight.
But since she weighs them not, this rests for me,
Ile mone my selfe, and hide the wrong I haue:
And so content me that her frownes should be

None other fame mine vnambitious Muse,
Affected euer, but t'eternize thee:
All other honors doe my hopes refuse,
Which meaner priz'd and momentary bee.
For God forbid I should my Papers blot,
With mercenary lines, with seruile Pen:
Praising vertues in them that haue them not,
Basely attending on the hopes of men.
No, no, my Verse respects not Thames nor Theaters ,

Like as the Lute delights or els dislikes,
As is his art that playes vpon the same:
So sounds my Muse according as she strikes
On my heart-strings high tun'd vnto her same
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
VVhich here I yeeld in lamentable wise:
A wayling descant on the sweetest ground,
VVhose due reports giue honor to her eyes.
Else harsh my stile, vntunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that prayseth not her name;
If any pleasing relish here I vse,
Then iudge the world her beauty giues 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 ouer-throwne
So D ELIA , hath mine error made me knowne,
And my deceiu'd attempt, deseru'd more fame;
Then if I had the victory mine owne:
And thy hard heart had yeelded vp the same
And so likewise, renowmed is thy blame,
Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case
That errors should be grac'd that merit shame,
And sinne of frownes bring honour to the face.