No sooner spreads her glory in the air, But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorned that late adorned the fair; So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. No April can revive thy withered flowers, Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift speedy time, feathered with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, But love now whilst thou mayst be loved again.
XXXVII But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again, Now whilst thy May hath filled thy lap with flowers, Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain, Now use thy summer smiles, ere winter lowers. And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun, The fairest flower that ever saw the light, Now joy thy time before thy sweet be done; And, Delia, think thy morning must have night, And that thy brightness sets at length to west, When thou wilt close up that which now thou showest, And think the same becomes thy fading best, Which then shall most inveil and shadow most.
Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was, When once they find her flower, her glory pass. XXXVIII When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, And thou with careful brow sitting alone Received hast this message from thy glass That tells the truth, and says that all is gone; Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining. I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st, My faith shall wax when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me, That fire can burn when all the matter's spent; Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent. Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When winter snows upon thy sable hairs. XXXIX When winter snows upon thy sable hairs, And frost of age hath nipped thy beauties near, When dark shall seem thy day that never clears, And all lies withered that was held so dear; Then take this picture which I here present thee, Limned with a pencil not all unworthy; Here see the gifts that God and nature lent thee, Here read thyself and what I suffered for thee.
This may remain thy lasting monument, Which happily posterity may cherish; These colours with thy fading are not spent, These may remain when thou and I shall perish. If they remain, then thou shalt live thereby; They will remain, and so thou canst not die. XL Thou canst not die whilst any zeal abound In feeling hearts than can conceive these lines; Though thou a Laura hast no Petrarch found, In base attire yet clearly beauty shines.
And I though born within a colder clime, Do feel mine inward heat as great--I know it; He never had more faith, although more rhyme; I love as well though he could better show it. But I may add one feather to thy fame, To help her flight throughout the fairest isle; And if my pen could more enlarge thy name, Then shouldst thou live in an immortal style. For though that Laura better limned be, Suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she! XLI Be not displeased that these my papers should Bewray unto the world how fair thou art; Or that my wits have showed the best they could The chastest flame that ever warmed heart.
Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame, My muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble. How many live, the glory of whose name Shall rest in ice, while thine is graved in marble! Thou mayst in after ages live esteemed, Unburied in these lines, reserved in pureness; These shall entomb those eyes, that have redeemed Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness. Although my careful accents never moved thee, Yet count it no disgrace that I loved thee. XLII Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine, Have seen those walls which proud ambition reared To check the world, how they entombed have lain Within themselves, and on them ploughs have eared; Yet never found that barbarous hand attained The spoil of fame deserved by virtuous men, Whose glorious actions luckily had gained Th'eternal annals of a happy pen.
And therefore grieve not if thy beauties die Though time do spoil thee of the fairest veil That ever yet covered mortality, And must instar the needle and the rail. That grace which doth more than inwoman thee, Lives in my lines and must eternal be. Now send forth hope, for now calm pity saves, And waft him to thee with those lovely eyes, A happy convoy to a holy land.
Now show thy power, and where thy virtue lies; To save thine own, stretch out the fairest hand. Stretch out the fairest hand, a pledge of peace, That hand that darts so right and never misses; I shall forget old wrongs, my griefs shall cease; And that which gave me wounds, I'll give it kisses. Once let the ocean of my care find shore, That thou be pleased, and I may sigh no more. XLIV Read in my face a volume of despairs, The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe; Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares, Wrought by her hand that I have honoured so.
Who whilst I burn, she sings at my soul's wrack, Looking aloft from turret of her pride; There my soul's tyrant joys her in the sack Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide. There do these smokes that from affliction rise, Serve as an incense to a cruel dame; A sacrifice thrice-grateful to her eyes, Because their power serves to exact the same. Thus ruins she to satisfy her will, The temple where her name was honoured still. XLV My Delia hath the waters of mine eyes, The ready handmaids on her grace t'attend, That never fail to ebb, but ever rise; For to their flow she never grants an end.
The ocean never did attend more duly Upon his sovereign's course, the night's pale queen, Nor paid the impost of his waves more truly, Than mine unto her cruelty hath been. Yet nought the rock of that hard heart can move, Where beat these tears with zeal, and fury drives; And yet, I'd rather languish in her love, Than I would joy the fairest she that lives. And if I find such pleasure to complain, What should I do then if I should obtain? XLVI How long shall I in mine affliction mourn, A burden to myself, distressed in mind; When shall my interdicted hopes return From out despair wherein they live confined?
When shall her troubled brow charged with disdain Reveal the treasure which her smiles impart? When shall my faith the happiness attain, To break the ice that hath congealed her heart? Unto herself, herself my love doth summon, If love in her hath any power to move And let her tell me, as she is a woman, Whether my faith hath not deserved her love?
I know her heart cannot but judge with me, Although her eyes my adversaries be. XLVII Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time but till the sun doth show, And straight 'tis gone as it had never been. Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, Short is the glory of the blushing rose, The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. When thou, surcharged with burden of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, And that in beauty's lease expired appears The date of age, the kalends of our death,-- But ah!
XLVIII I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have a time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. Ah sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither. And where the sweetest blossoms first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither. Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair, Pity and smiles shall yield thee lasting praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one! Yet go, forsaken! Leave these woods, these plains, Leave her and all, and all for her that leaves Thee and thy love forlorn, and both disdains, And of both wrongful deems and ill conceives. Seek out some place, and see if any place Can give the least release unto thy grief; Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace, Steal from thyself and be thy cares' own thief.
But yet what comforts shall I hereby gain? Bearing the wound, I needs must feel the pain. Flourish, fair Albion, glory of the north! Neptune's best darling, held between his arms; Divided from the world as better worth, Kept for himself, defended from all harms! Still let disarmed peace deck her and thee; And Muse-foe Mars abroad far fostered be!
LI Care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night, Brother to death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish, and restore the light; With dark forgetting of my care return, And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth; Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth.
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Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow; Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain. LII Let others sing of knights and paladins, In aged accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines Which well the reach of their high wits records; But I must sing of thee and those fair eyes Authentic shall my verse in time to come, When yet th'unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies, Whose beauty made him speak that else was dumb!
These are the arks, the trophies I erect, That fortify thy name against old age; And these thy sacred virtues must protect Against the dark and time's consuming rage. Though th'error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they show I lived and loved thee, dear. LIII As to the Roman that would free his land, His error was his honour and renown; And more the fame of his mistaking hand Than if he had the tyrant overthrown. So Delia, hath mine error made me known, And my deceived attempt deserved more fame, Than if had the victory mine own, And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.
And so likewise renowned is thy blame; Thy cruelty, thy glory; O strange case, That errors should be graced that merit shame, And sin of frowns bring honour to the face. Yet happy Delia that thou wast unkind, Though happier far, if thou would'st change thy mind. LIV Like as the lute delights or else dislikes As is his art that plays upon the same, So sounds my Muse according as she strikes On my heart-strings high tuned unto her fame.
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound, Which here I yield in lamentable wise, A wailing descant on the sweetest ground, Whose due reports give honour to her eyes; Else harsh my style, untunable my Muse; Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name; If any pleasing relish here I use, Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.
For no ground else could make the music such, Nor other hand could give so sweet a touch. LV None other fame mine unambitious Muse Affected ever but t'eternise thee; All other honours do my hopes refuse, Which meaner prized and momentary be. For God forbid I should my papers blot With mercenary lines with servile pen, Praising virtues in them that have them not, Basely attending on the hopes of men. No, no, my verse respects not Thames, nor theatres; Nor seeks it to be known unto the great; But Avon, poor in fame, and poor in waters, Shall have my song, where Delia hath her seat.
Avon shall be my Thames, and she my song; No other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong. LVI Unhappy pen, and ill-accepted lines That intimate in vain my chaste desire, My chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shines, Enkindled by her eyes' celestial fire; Celestial fire, and unrespecting powers Which pity not the wounds made by their might, Showed in these lines, the work of careful hours, The sacrifice here offered to her sight. But since she weighs them not, this rests for me: I'll moan myself, and hide the wrong I have, And so content me that her frowns should be To m'infant style the cradle and the grave.
What though my Muse no honour get thereby; Each bird sings to herself, and so will I. LVII Lo here the impost of a faith entire, That love doth pay, and her disdain extorts; Behold the message of a chaste desire That tells the world how much my grief imports. These tributary passions, beauty's due, I send those eyes, the cabinets of love; That cruelty herself might grieve to view Th'affliction her unkind disdain doth move.
And how I live, cast down from off all mirth, Pensive, alone, only but with despair; My joys abortive perish in their birth, My griefs long-lived and care succeeding care. This is my state, and Delia's heart is such; I say no more, I fear I said too much. They do not appear in any other editions. When only I, the only wretched wight, Weary of life that breathes but sorrow's blast, Pursue the flame of such a beauty bright, That burns my heart, and yet my life still lasts. O sovereign light, that with thy sacred flame Consumes my life, revive me after this!
And make me, with the happy bird, the same That dies to live, by favour of thy bliss! This deed of thine will show a goddess' power, In so long death to grant one living hour. II The sly enchanter when to work his will And secret wrong on some forespoken wight, Frames wax in form to represent aright The poor unwitting wretch he means to kill, And pricks the image framed by magic's skill, Whereby to vex the party day and night; Like hath she done, whose show bewitched my sight To beauty's charms, her lover's blood to spill.
For first, like wax she framed me by her eyes, Whose rays sharp-pointed set upon my breast Martyr my life and plague me in this wise With ling'ring pain to perish in unrest. Nought could, save this, my sweetest fair suffice, To try her art on him that loves her best. The grievous shipwreck of my travels dear In bulged bark, all perished in disgrace. That traitor Love was pilot to my woe; My sails were hope, spread with my sighs of grief; The twin lights which my hapless course did show Hard by th'inconstant sands of false relief, Were two bright stars which led my view apart.
A siren's voice allured me come so near To perish on the marble of her heart, A danger which my soul did never fear. Lo, thus he fares that trusts a calm too much; And thus fare I whose credit hath been such! IV Weigh but the cause, and give me leave to plain me, For all my hurt, that my heart's queen hath wrought it; She whom I love so dear, the more to pain me, Withholds my right where I have dearly bought it.
Dearly I bought that was so slightly rated, Even with the price of blood and body's wasting; She would not yield that ought might be abated, For all she saw my love was pure and lasting, And yet now scorns performance of the passion, And with her presence justice overruleth. She tells me flat her beauty bears no action; And so my plea and process she excludeth. What wrong she doth, the world may well perceive it, To accept my faith at first, and then to leave it.
And whilst I guard the windows of this fort, Where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice, And thither all my forces do transport, Another passage opens at her voice. Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye, My freedom's tyrant, conquering all by art; But ah! Yet my soul's sovereign, since I must resign, Reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine! They are not found in later editions. Heaven nor earth will not, myself cannot make A way through want to free my soul from care; But I must pine, and in my pining lurk Lest my sad looks bewray me how I fare.
My fortune mantled with a cloud s'obscure, Thus shades my life so long as wants endure. VII My cares draw on mine everlasting night, In horror's sable clouds sets my life's sun; My life's sweet sun, my dearest comfort's light Shall rise no more to me whose day is done. I'll go before unto the myrtle shades, T'attend the presence of my world's dear; And there prepare her flowers that never fades, And all things fit against her coming there.
If any ask me why so soon I came, I'll hide her sin and say it was my lot. In life and death I'll tender her good name; My life nor death shall never be her blot.
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Although this world may seem her deed to blame, The Elysian ghosts shall never know the same. It is as follows: "The Sonnets following are divided into 3 parts, each parte contayning 3 several arguments and every argument 7 sonets. Among the other "perticulars" addressed, the Queen is of course bounteously favoured, and a number of ladies of her Court are honoured; the series therefore lacks all pretense of unity. In fact, the title of the edition declares that the "excellent conceitful sonnets of Henry Constable" are "augmented with divers quartorzains of honourable and learned personages;" and Sidney has been found to be one of the "honourable and learned personages" whose works were laid under contribution to make the book; but since the whole first and second decades are the same as in the earlier volume by "H.
All three books, the '92 and '94 editions and the manuscript volume, show a like taste for orderly arrangement not found in general in the sonnet-cycles. He lived until and bore an excellent reputation in his day. He was the friend of Ben Jonson, who speaks of his "ambrosaic Muse," of Sidney, Harington, Tofte, and other literary men. In Constable's case the interest was religious and the poet was personally a man of devout feeling. Writing from the Tower, where for a time he was detained, he says, "Whether I remain in prison or go out, I have learned to live alone with God. In Constable we see the new revelation barely emerging from the darkness, the human hand reaching out in art toward the divine, but not knowing how to take and hold the higher in its grasp.
These sonnets are as "conceitful" as the others, but the collection illustrates an early effort to turn the poetic energy into a new field, to broaden the scope of subject-matter possible in sonnet-form. The poet was evidently a close student of the sonnet-structure. He used the Italian and the English form in about an equal number of cases but he experiments on a large variety of rime-arrangements besides.
As to the personality honoured under the name of Diana, there seems to be much obscurity. To the honour of being this poet's inspirer, there are two claimants; one the Lady Rich, the Stella of Sidney, the other the ill-fated Arabella Stuart. It is noteworthy that the only one of all the sonnets addressed personally to particular ladies that is retained in the edition of , is one to Lady Rich. But this sonnet tells us little except that "wished fortune" had once made it possible for him to see her in all her beauty of roses and lilies, stars and waves of gold: but this might have happened if he had once seen that beauteous lady pass along the street in the queen's glittering train.
Sonnet cycle | Penny's poetry pages Wiki | FANDOM powered by Wikia
Other sonnets to or about the Lady Rich are equally uncommunicative; and if the ill-starred Penelope Devereux is the one alone that Constable loved, Time has shut the secret tightly in his heart and will not give it up. The other guess is but little nearer to certainty. During the years that Constable was pursuing his shadowy schemes, Arabella Stuart was an object of admiration and of political jealousy; the house where she lived was constantly spied upon, her very tutors were suspected, the wildest schemes were formed upon her royal connections, and it would not be strange if the heart of our poetical zealot turned toward this star of his cause.
We may be sure that he would not have been averse to a clandestine meeting, for in writing to that arch-plotter, the Countess of Shrewsbury, Arabella's doting grandmother, he says: "It is more convenient to write unto your Ladyship, than to come unto you or to make any other visits either by day or night till I have further liberty granted me;" besides this, the Earl of Shrewsbury was distantly related to Constable's family, and this fact of kinship may have opened the way; while his sonnet to the Countess intimates that his heart had been touched by some beauty in her Venus' camp.
If not Arabella, who could this be? A warrior of your camp by force of eyes Me prisoner took, and will with rigour deal, Except you pity in your heart will place, At whose white hands I only seek for grace. The first is in the usual strain of praise, and closes: "My drift was this, Some earthly shadow of thy worth to show Whose heavenly self above world's reason is. Thus others' worth by you is honoured. But who shall honour yours? Poor wits, in vain We seek to pay the debts which you pertain Till from yourself some wealth be borrowed.
Lend some your tongues, that every nation may In his own hear your virtuous praises blaze; Lend them your wit, your judgment, memory, Lest they themselves should not know what to say; And that thou mayst be loved as much as praised, My heart thou mayst lend them which I gave thee. And in this book, which here you may peruse, Abroad they fly, resolved to try the same Adventure in their flight; and thee, sweet dame, Both she and I for our protection choose; I by my vow, and she by farther right Under your phoenix wing presume to fly; That from all carrion beaks in safety might By one same wing be shrouded, she and I.
O happy, if I might but flitter there Where you and she and I should be so near. Constable's zealous publisher was not far wrong when he claimed that in this poet "conceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy," and since we do not find either in the sonnets to Lady Rich or in those to Lady Arabella any special tone of sincerity that leads us to have confidence in our conjecture, we shall be compelled to leave this puzzle unsolved. Fair, chaste, immaculate, and all divine, Glorious alone, before the first man's birth; Your twofold charities, celestial lights, Bow your sun-rising eyes, planets of joy, Upon these orphan poems; in whose rights Conceit first claimed his birthright to enjoy.
If, pitiful, you shun the song of death, Or fear the stain of love's life-dropping blood, O know then, you are pure; and purer faith Shall still keep white the flower, the fruit, and bud. Love moveth all things.
You that love, shall move All things in him, and he in you shall love. Like him which feels a heat now here now there, Blames now this cause now that, until he see The fire indeed from whence they caused be; Which fire I now do know is you, my dear, Thus diverse loves dispersed in my verse In thee alone for ever I unite, And fully unto thee more to rehearse; To him I fly for grace that rules above, That by my grace I may live in delight, Or by his grace I never more may love.
See them forsaken; for I them forsook, Forsaken first of thee, next of my sense; And when thou deign'st on their black tears to look, Shed not one tear, my tears to recompence; But joy in this, though fate 'gainst me repine, My verse still lives to witness thee divine. Hear then, and as my heart shall aye remain A patient object to thy lightning eyes, A patient ear bring thou to thund'ring cries; Fear not the crack, when I the blow sustain.
So as thine eye bred mine ambitious thought, So shall thine ear make proud my voice for joy. Lo, dear, what wonders great by thee are wrought, When I but little favour do enjoy! The voice is made the ear for to rejoice, And your ear giveth pleasure to my voice. Mine humble heart, so with thy heavenly eye Drawn up aloft, all low desires doth shun; Raise thou me up, as thou my heart hast done, So during night in heaven remain may I. I say again, blame not my high desire, Sith of us both the cause thereof depends. In thee doth shine, in me doth burn a fire, Fire draws up other, and itself ascends.
Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles: Delia, by S. Daniel. Diana, by H. Constable
Thine eye a fire, and so draws up my love; My love a fire, and so ascends above. Take heed, do not so near his rays aspire; Lest, for thy pride, inflamed with wreakful ire, It burn thy wings, as it hath burned me. Thou haply sayst thy wings immortal be, And so cannot consumed be with fire; And one is hope, the other is desire, And that the heavens bestowed them both on thee. A muse's words made thee with hope to fly, An angel's face desire hath begot, Thyself engendered by a goddess' eye; Yet for all this, immortal thou art not. Of heavenly eye though thou begotten art, Yet art thou born but of a mortal heart.
Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles / Delia ? Diana
Dear, seek revenge and him a liar prove; Gods only do impossibilities. So shall thy foe give to himself the lie; A goddess thou shall prove, and happy I! Thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart; Mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level by To hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry. Mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart. Thine eye a fire is both in heat and light; Mine eye of tears a river doth become.
O that the water of mine eye had might To quench the flames that from thine eye doth come, Or that the fires kindled by thine eye, The flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry. These sins procured have a goddess' ire, Wherefore my heart is damned in love's sweet fire. It called my tongue the partial trump of fame, And saith my pen hath flattered thy name, Because my pen did to my tongue agree; And that my heart must needs a flatterer be, Which taught both tongue and pen to say the same.
No, no, I flatter not when thee I call The sun, sith that the sun was never such; But when the sun thee I compared withal, Doubtless the sun I flattered too much. Witness mine eyes, I say the truth in this, They have seen thee and know that so it is. Then say but this, "Because my pleasure in thy torment is, I do command thee without hope to love!
It was your will, and not my want of wit; I have the pain, bear you the blame of it! The lily's leaves for envy pale became, And her white hands in them this envy bred. The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread, Because the sun's and her power is the same. The violet of purple colour came, Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed. In brief, all flowers from her their virtue take; From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed; The living heat which her eyebeams doth make Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.
The rain wherewith she watereth the flowers, Falls from mine eyes which she dissolves in showers. Lately I did behold a rich fair coat, Which wished fortune to mine eyes did bring. A lordly coat, yet worthy of a king, In which one might all these perfections note. A field of lilies, roses proper bare; Two stars in chief; the crest was waves of gold.
How glittering 'twas, might by the stars appear; The lilies made it fair for to behold. And rich it was as by the gold appeareth; But happy he that in his arms it weareth! Not then vain hope of undeserved gain Hath made me paint in verses mine annoy, But for thy pleasure, that thou might'st enjoy Thy beauty's praise, in glasses of my pain. See then, thyself, though me thou wilt not hear, By looking on my verse.
For pain in verse, Love doth in pain, beauty in love appear. So if thou would'st my verses' meaning see, Expound them thus, when I my love rehearse: "None loves like he!
For witches which some murder do intend, Do make a picture and do shoot at it; And in that part where they the picture hit, The party's self doth languish to his end. So love, too weak by force thy heart to taint, Within my heart thy heavenly shape doth paint; Suffering therein his arrows to abide, Only to th'end he might by witches' art, Within my heart pierce through thy picture's side, And through thy picture's side might wound my heart.
Now when the sun-time brings my sun to rest, Which me too oft of rest hath hindered, And whiter skin with white sheet covered, And softer cheek doth on soft pillow rest, Then I, O sun of suns! Wish me with those antipodes to be, Which see and feel thy beams and heat by nights. Well, though the night both cold and darksome is, Yet half the day's delight the night grants me, I feel my sun's heat, though his light I miss. Nature to thee beauty and favour gave; Fair then thou art, and favour thou may'st spare. Nor when on me bestowed your favours are, Less favour in your face you shall not have; If favour then a wounded soul may save, Of murder's guilt, dear Lady, then beware.
My loss of life a million fold were less Than the least loss should unto you befall; Yet grant this gift; which gift when I possess, Both I have life and you no loss at all. For by your favour only I do live, And favour you may well both keep and give. Reason returned; love and fortune made Judges, to judge mine eyes to punishment. Fortune, sith they by sight my heart betrayed From wished sight, adjudged them banishment; Love, sith by fire murdered my heart was found, Adjudged them in tears for to be drowned.
My love has gone a begging unto thee. And if that beauty had not been more kind That pity, long ere this he had been pined; But beauty is content his food to be. O pity have when such poor orphans beg! Love, naked boy, hath nothing on his back; And though he wanteth neither arm nor leg, Yet maimed he is sith he his sight doth lack. And yet though blind he beauty can behold, And yet though naked he feels more heat than cold. But as he waiteth for some almes deed, A cherry tree before the door he spies. Two only may save life in this my need. Pardon my love, he is a goddess' son, And never feedeth but on dainty meat, Else need he not to pine, as he hath done; For only the sweet fruit of this sweet tree Can give food to my love and life to me.
My lady so, the while she doth assay In curled knots fast to entangle me, Put on her veil, to th' end I should not flee The golden net wherein I am a prey. Alas, most sweet! Sith with your hand alone you may it get, For it desires to fly into the same. What needs such art my thoughts then to entrap, When of themselves they fly into your lap?
Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart, Where I in living torments never die. His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart. Now, as Saint Francis, if a saint am I, The bow that shot these shafts a relic is; I mean the hand, which is the reason why So many for devotion thee would kiss: And some thy glove kiss as a thing divine, This arrows' quiver, and this relic's shrine. Time is so short, beauties so many be, As I have need to see them day and night, That by continual view my verses might Tell all the beams of your divinity; Which praise to you and joy should be to me, You living by my verse, I by your sight; I by your sight, and not you by my verse, Need mortal skill immortal praise rehearse?
No, no, though eyes were blind, and verse were dumb, Your beauty should be seen and your fame known; For by the wind which from my sighs do come, Your praises round about the world are blown. Spare thou her health, which my life hath not spared; Too bitter such revenge of my unrest! Although with wrongs my thought she hath opprest, My wrongs seek not revenge, they crave reward Cease, sickness, cease in her then to remain; And come and welcome, harbour thou in me Whom love long since hath taught to suffer in!
So she which hath so oft my pain increased, O God, that I might so revenged be, By my poor pain might have her pain released! When first mine eyes did with thy beauty joy, They to my heart thy wondrous virtues told; Who, fearing lest thy beams should him destroy, Whate'er he knew, did to my tongue unfold. My tell-tale tongue, in talking over bold, What they in private council did declare, To thee, in plain and public terms unrolled; And so by that made thee more coyer far.
What in thy praise he spoke, that didst thou trust; And yet my sorrows thou dost hold unjust. X Of an Athenian young man have I read, Who on blind fortune's picture doated so, That when he could not buy it to his bed, On it he gazing died for very woe. My fortune's picture art thou, flinty dame, That settest golden apples to my sight; But wilt by no means let me taste the same. To drown in sight of land is double spite. Of fortune as thou learn'dst to be unkind, So learn to be unconstant to disdain.
The wittiest women are to sport inclined. Honour is pride, and pride is nought but pain. Let others boast of choosing for the best; 'Tis substances not names must make us blest. All this my heart from love can never move. Love is not in my heart. No, Lady, no, My heart is love itself. If you know the book but cannot find it on AbeBooks, we can automatically search for it on your behalf as new inventory is added. If it is added to AbeBooks by one of our member booksellers, we will notify you!
Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles. Delia Diana. Samuel Daniel ; Henry Constable. Publisher: Trieste Publishing , This specific ISBN edition is currently not available. View all copies of this ISBN edition:. Synopsis Trieste Publishing has a massive catalogue of classic book titles.
More information about this seller Contact this seller 6. Published by Echo Library About this Item: Echo Library, Condition: UsedAcceptable. More information about this seller Contact this seller 7. Language: English. Brand new Book. Daniel's sonnet series has been by many regarded as the prototype of Shakespeare's. It is true that several of Daniel's themes are repeated in the cycle composed by the greater poet.
The ideas of immortality in verse, the transitoriness of beauty, the assurances of truth, the humility and the woes of the lover, the pain of separation and the comfort of night thoughts, shape the mood of both poets. But these motives are also found in the pages of many other sonneteers of the time. Seller Inventory APC More information about this seller Contact this seller 8. More information about this seller Contact this seller 9. Published by Andesite Press, United States This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it.
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