English

D ELIA , these eyes that so admireth thine,
Haue seene those walls which proud ambition rear'd
To check the world, how they intomb'd haue lien
Within themselues, and on them ploughs haue ear'd.
Yet neuer found that barbarous hand attaind
The spoyle of fame deseru'd by vertuous men:
Whose glorious actions luckily had gaind
Th'eternall Annals of a happy pen.
And therefore grieue not if thy beauties die,
Though time do spoyle thee of the fairest vaile
That euer yet couered mortality,

Be not displeasd that these my papers should
Bewray vnto the world how faire thou art:
Or that my wits haue shewed the best they could.
(The chastest flame that euer warmed hart)
Thinke not (sweet D ELIA ) this shall be thy shame,
My Muse should sound thy praise with mournfull warble:
How many liue, the glory of whose name
Shall rest in Ise, when thine is grau'd in Marble.
Thou maist in after ages liue esteem'd,
Vnburied in these lines reseru'd in purenes;
These shall intombe those eies, that haue redeem'd

Thou canst not die whilst any zeale abound
In feeling hearts that can conceiue these lines;
Though thou a Laura hast no Petrarch found,
In base attire, yet cleerly Beauty shines.
And I (though borne within a colder clime,)
Do feele mine inward heat as great (I know it:)
He neuer had more faith, although more rime,
I loue as well, though he could better show it.

VVhen winter snowes vpon thy sable haires,
And frost of age hath nipt thy beauties neere,
When darke shall seeme thy day that neuer cleares,
And all lies withred that was held so deere.
Then take this picture which I here present thee,
Limmed with a Pensill not all vnworthy:
Here see the gifts that God and nature lent thee,
Here read thy selfe, and what I suffred for thee.
This may remaine thy lasting monument,
Which happily posterity may cherrish,
These colours with thy fading are not spent,

VVhen men shall find thy flower, thy glory passe,
And thou with carefull brow sitting alone:
Receiued hast this message from thy glasse,
That tells the truth, and sayes that all is gone;
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madst,
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining,
I that haue lou'd thee thus before thou fadst,
My faith shall waxe, when thou are in thy waining.
The world shall finde this myracle in me,
That fire can burne when all the matter's spent:
Then what my faith hath bene thy selfe shall see,

Bvt loue whilst that thou maist be lou'd againe,
Now whilst thy May hath fild thy lap with flowers,
Now whilst thy beauty beares without a staine;
Now vse the Sommer smiles, ere Winter lowers.
And whilst thou spreadst vnto the rising sunne,
The fairest flowre that euer saw the light,
Now ioy thy time before thy sweet be done.
And (D ELIA ) thinke thy morning must haue night,
And that thy brightnes sets at length to West,
When thou wilt close vp that which now thou show'st,
And thinke the same becomes thy fading best,

Looke D ELIA how w'esteeme the halse blowne Rose,
The image of thy blush and Sommers honor:
Whilst yet her tender bud doth vndisclose
That full of beauty, time bestowes vpon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the ayre,
But straight her wide blowne pomp comes to decline:
She then is scornd that late adornd the Fayre;
So fade the Roses of those cheeks of thine.
No Aprill can reuiue thy withered flowres,
Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now:
Swift speedy Time, feathred with flying houres,

I Once may see when yeares shall wreck my wrong,
When golden haires shall change to siluer wier:
And those bright raies that kindle all this fire,
Shall faile in force, their working not so strong:
Then beauty (now the burthen of my song)
VVhose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Must yeeld vp all to tyrant Times desire;
Then fade those flowers that deckt her pride so long.
VVhen, if she grieue to gaze her in her glasse,
Which, then presents her winter-withered hew,
Goe you my verse, go tell her what she was;

VVhy doost thou D ELIA credit so thy glasse,
Gazing thy beauty deign'd thee by the skies:
And doest not rather looke on him (alas)
Whose state best shewes the force of murdering eies?
The broken tops of lofty trees declare
The fury of a mercy-wanting storme;
And of what force thy wounding graces are,
Vpon my selfe thou best mayst finde the forme:
Then leaue thy glasse, and gaze thy selfe on me,

Raising my hopes on hills of high desire,
Thinking to scale the heauen of her hart,
My slender meanes presum'd too high a part;
Her thunder of disdaine forst me retire,
And threw me downe to paine in all this fire,
Where loe I languish in so heauy smart,
Because th'attempt was farre aboue my art:
Her pride brook'd not poore soules should so aspire.
Yet I protest my high desiring will
Was not to dispossesse her of her right:
Her soueraignty should haue remained still,
I onely sought the blisse to haue her sight.