1247 Love poems

Unto the boundless Ocean of thy beauty Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal: Returning thee the tribute of my duty, Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal. Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul, Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care: Here have I summed my sighs, here I enroll How they were spent for thee; look what they are. Look on the dear expenses of my youth, And see how just I reckon with thine eyes: Examine well thy beauty with my truth, And cross my cares ere greater sum arise. Read it sweet maid, though it be done but slightly; Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly.

Go wailing verse, the infants of my love, Minerva-like, brought forth without a Mother: Present the image of the cares I prove, Witness your Father’s grief exceeds all other. Sigh out a story of her cruel deeds, With interrupted accents of despair: A monument that whosoever reads, May justly praise, and blame my loveless Fair. Say her disdain hath dried up my blood, And starved you, in succours still denying: Press to her eyes, importune me some good; Waken her sleeping pity with your crying. Knock at that hard heart, beg till you have moved her; And tell th’unkind, how dearly I have loved her.

Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose, The image of thy blush and summer's honour, Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose That full of beauty Time bestows upon her. No sooner spreads her glory in the air But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline; She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair; So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. No April can revive thy wither'd flowers Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now; Swift speedy Time, feather'd 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 lov'd again.

Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose, The image of thy blush and summer's honour, Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose That pure sweet beauty time bestows upon her. No sooner spreads her glory in the air But straight her full-blown pride is in declining; She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair: So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining. No April can revive thy wither'd flowers, Whose blooming grace adorns thy beauty now; Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours, Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow. O let not then such riches waste in vain, But love whilst that thou mayst be lov'd again.

But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again, Now whilst thy May hath filed thy lap with flowers, Now whilst thy beauty bears without a stain, Now use the 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 shew’st; And think the same becomes they fading best Which then shall most inveil and shadow most. Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was, When once they find her flower, her glory, pass.

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 thee truth and says that all is gone: Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining; I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest, 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 shall see, And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent. Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears, When winter snows upon thy golden hairs.

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 the 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 shew’st; And think the same becomes thy fading best Which then shall most inveil and shadow most. Men do not weigh the stalk for what it was, When once they find her flower, her glory, pass.

When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass, And thou, with careful brow sitting alone, Receivèd hast this message from thy glass, That tells thee truth, and says that all is gone, Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining, I that have loved thee thus before thou fadest, 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 shall see, And that thou wast unkind thou mayst repent. Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears, When Winter snows upon thy golden hairs.

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 they shall discover, Suffice they show I liv'd and was thy lover.

Unhappy pen and ill accepted papers, That intimate in vain my chaste desires, My chaste desires, the ever burning tapers, Enkindled by her eyes’ celestial fires. Celestial fires and unrespecting powers, That deign not view the glory of your might, In humble lines the work of careful hours, The sacrifice I offer to her sight. But since she scorns her own, this rests for me, I’ll moan my self, and hide the wrong I have: And so content me that her frowns should be To my infant style the cradle, and the grave. What though my self no honor get thereby, Each bird sings t’herself, and so will I.