Elizabethan Sonnet-Cycles | Page 7

both make the world admire at us,?Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.
XXVII
Reignin my thoughts, fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice!?Possess me whole, my heart's triumvirate!?Yet heavy heart, to make so hard a choice?Of such as spoil thy poor afflicted state!?For whilst they strive which shall be lord of all,?All my poor life by them is trodden down;?They all erect their trophies on my fall,?And yield me nought that gives them their renown.?When back I look, I sigh my freedom past,?And wail the state wherein I present stand,?And see my fortune ever like to last,?Finding me reined with such a heavy hand.?What can I do but yield? and yield I do;?And serve all three, and yet they spoil me too!
XXVIII
_Alluding to the sparrow pursued by a hawk, that flew into the bosom of Zenocrates_
Whilst by thy eyes pursued, my poor heart flew?Into the sacred refuge of thy breast;?Thy rigour in that sanctuary slew?That which thy succ'ring mercy should have blest.?No privilege of faith could it protect,?Faith being with blood and five years witness signed, Wherein no show gave cause of least suspect,?For well thou saw'st my love and how I pined.?Yet no mild comfort would thy brow reveal,?No lightning looks which falling hopes erect;?What boots to laws of succour to appeal??Ladies and tyrants never laws respect.?Then there I die from whence my life should come,?And by that hand whom such deeds ill become.
XXIX
Still in the trace of one perplex��d thought,?My ceaseless cares continually run on,?Seeking in vain what I have ever sought,?One in my love, and her hard heart still one.?I who did never joy in other sun,?And have no stars but those that must fulfil?The work of rigour, fatally begun?Upon this heart whom cruelty will kill,?Injurious Delia!--yet, I love thee still,?And will whilst I shall draw this breath of mine;?I'll tell the world that I deserved but ill,?And blame myself, t'excuse that heart of thine;?See then who sins the greater of us twain,?I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.
XXX
Oft do I marvel whether Delia's eyes?Are eyes, or else two radiant stars that shine;?For how could nature ever thus devise?Of earth, on earth, a substance so divine??Stars, sure, they are, whose motions rule desires,?And calm and tempest follow their aspects;?Their sweet appearing still such power inspires,?That makes the world admire so strange effects.?Yet whether fixed or wandering stars are they,?Whose influence rules the orb of my poor heart;?Fixed, sure, they are, but wandering make me stray?In endless errors whence I cannot part.?Stars, then, not eyes, move you with milder view?Your sweet aspect on him that honours you!
XXXI
The star of my mishap imposed this pain?To spend the April of my years in grief;?Finding my fortune ever in the wane,?With still fresh cares, supplied with no relief.?Yet thee I blame not, though for thee 'tis done;?But these weak wings presuming to aspire,?Which now are melted by thine eyes' bright sun?That makes me fall from off my high desire;?And in my fall I cry for help with speed,?No pitying eye looks back upon my fears;?No succour find I now when most I need:?My heats must drown in th'ocean of my tears,?Which still must bear the title of my wrong,?Caused by those cruel beams that were so strong.
XXXII
And yet I cannot reprehend the flight,?Or blame th'attempt, presuming so to soar;?The mounting venture for a high delight?Did make the honour of the fall the more.?For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore??Danger hath honours, great designs their fame,?Glory doth follow, courage goes before;?And though th'event oft answers not the same,?Suffice that high attempts have never shame.?The mean observer whom base safety keeps,?Lives without honour, dies without a name,?And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.?And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot?To have attempted though attained thee not.
XXXIII
Raising my hopes on hills of high desire,?Thinking to scale the heaven of her heart,?My slender means presumed too high a part,?Her thunder of disdain forced me retire,?And threw me down to pain in all this fire,?Where lo, I languish in so heavy smart?Because th'attempt was far above my art;?Her pride brooked not poor souls should come so nigh her. Yet, I protest, my high desiring will?Was not to dispossess her of her right;?Her sovereignty should have remain��d still;?I only sought the bliss to have her sight.?Her sight, contented thus to see me spill,?Framed my desires fit for her eyes to kill.
XXXIV
Why dost thou, Delia, credit so thy glass,?Gazing thy beauty deigned thee by the skies,?And dost not rather look on him, alas!?Whose state best shows the force of murdering eyes??The broken tops of lofty trees declare?The fury of a mercy-wanting storm;?And of what force thy wounding graces are?Upon myself, you best may find the form.?Then leave thy glass, and gaze thyself on me;?That mirror shows what power is in thy face;?To view your form