English

Let others sing of Knights and Palladines;
In aged accents, and vntimely words:
Paint shadowes in imaginary lines,
VVhich well the reach of their high wits records;
But I must sing of thee, and those faire eies,
Autentique shall my verse in time to come,
VVhen yet th'vnborne shall say, Lo where she lies,
VVhose beauty made him speake 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,

Care-charmer Sleepe, sonne of the sable night,
Brother to death, in silent darknes borne:
Relieue my languish, and restore the light,
With darke forgetting of my care returne.
And let the day be time enough to mourne
The shipwracke of my ill aduentred youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to waile their scorne,
Without the torment of the nights vntruth.
Cease dreames, th'Images of day desires,
To modell forth the passions of the morrow:
Neuer let rising Sunne approue you liers,
To adde more griefe to aggrauate my sorrow.

This Sonnet was made at the Author's beeing in Italie.

Drawne with th'atractiue vertue of her eyes,
My toucht heart turnes it to that happy cost:
My ioyfull North, where all my fortune lies,
The leuell of my hopes desired most,
There where my Delia fairer then the Sunne,
Deckt with her youth whereon the world doth smile,
Ioyes in that honor which her eyes haue wonne,

At the Authors going into Italie.

And whither (poore forsaken) wilt thou goe,
To goe from sorrow, and thine owne distresse?
When euery place presents like face of woe,
And no remoue can make thy sorrowes lesse?
Yet goe (forsaken) leaue these Woods, these plaines,
Leaue her and all, and all for her that leaues
Thee and thy Loue forlorne, and both disdaines:

I Must not grieue my Loue, whose eies would reede
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile:
Flowers haue a time before they come to seede,
And she is yong, and now must sport the while.
Ah sport (sweet Maide) in season of these yeares,
And learne to gather flowers before they wither:
And where the sweetest blossomes first appeares,
Let loue and youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten foorth smiles to cleere the clouded aire,
And calme the tempest which my sighs doo raise:

Beautie (sweet Loue) is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh vpon the tender greene:
Cheeres for a time, but till the Sunne doth shew,
And straight tis gone as it had neuer beene.
Soone doth it fade that makes the fairest florish,
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose:
The hew which thou so carefully dost norish,
Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose.
When thou surcharg'd with burthen of thy yeeres,
Shalt bend thy wrinckles homeward to the earth,
And that in Beauties lease expir'd, appeares

How long shall I in mine affliction mourne?
A burden to my selfe, distrest in minde:
When shall my interdicted hopes returne,
From out dispaire, wherein they liue confinde?
When shal her troubled brow charg'd with disdaine
Reueale the treasure which her smiles impart?
When shall my faith the happines attaine,
To breake the Ise that hath congeald her heart?
Vnto her selfe, her selfe my loue doth sommon,
(If loue in her hath any power to moue,)
And let her tell me as she is a woman,

My D ELIA hath the waters of mine eies,
The ready handmayds on her grace t'attend:
That neuer fall to ebbe, but euer rise,
For to their flow she neuer grants an end.
Th'Ocean neuer did attend more duly
Vpon his souereignes course, the nights pale Queene,
Nor payd the impost of his waues more truly,
Then mine vnto her cruelty hath beene.
Yet nought the rocke of that hard heart can moue,
Where beat these teares with zeale, and fury driues:
And yet I'd rather languish for her loue,

Read in my face, a volume of dispaires,
The wailing Iliads of my tragicke woe:
Drawne with my blood, and painted with my cares,
Wrought by her hand that I haue honour'd so.
Who whilst I burne, she sings at my soules wrack,
Looking aloft from turret of her pride:
There my soules tyrant ioyes her, in the sack
Of her owne seate, whereof I made her guide.
There do these smoakes that from affliction rise,
Serue as an incense to a cruell Dame:
A sacrifice thrice-gratefull to her eies,

Most faire and louely Maide, looke from the shore,
See thy Leander striuing in these waues:
Poore soule quite spent, whose force can do no more,
Now send forth hope, for now calme pitty saues.
And wast him to thee with those louely eies,
A happy conuoy to a holy Land:
Now shew thy power, and where thy vertue lies,
To saue thine owne, stretch out the fairest hand.