DELIA and ROSAMOND augmented.  
CLEOPATRA  
By Samuel Daniel.  
AEtas prima canat veneres postrema tumultus.  
1594.  
Printed at London for Simon Waterson; and are to be sold in Paul's Churchyard at the sign of the Crown.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE LADY MARY, Countess of Pembroke.  

WOnder of these, glory of other times,  
OH thou whom Envy even is forced t'admyre:  
Great Patroness of these my humble Rhymes,  
Which thou from out thy greatness dost inspire:  
Sith only thou hast deigned to raise them higher,  
Vouchsafe now to accept them as thy own,  
Begotten by thy hand, and my desire,  
Wherein my Zeal, and thy great might is shown.  
And seeing this unto the world is known,  
OH leave not, still to grace thy work in me:  
Let not the quickening seed be overthrown,  
Of that which may be born to honour thee.  
Whereof, the travail I may challenge mine,  
But yet the glory, (Madam) must be thy.    

Gentle Reader correct these faults escaped in the printing.  

SOnnet 18. line 3. for error, read terror.  
G. 1. page 2. for Condemning, read Conducting.  
In L. page 16. Mark the Speaker, and read thus,  
The justice of the heavens revenging thus,  
Doth only satisfy itself, not us.  
In the last Chorus, for care, read cure.    

TO DELIA.  

SONNET. I  
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.  
Hear I unclasp the book of my charged soul,  
Where I have cast th'accounts of all my care:  
Hear have I summed my sighs; here I unroll  
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 thy eyes:  
Examine well thy beauty with my truth,  
And cross my cares ere greater sums arise.  
Read it (sweet maid,) though it be done but slightly,  
Who can show all his love, doth love but lightly.   

SONNET. II  
GO wailing verse, the Infants of my love,  
Minerua-lyke, 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 inter-rupted accents of despair:  
A monument that whosoever reeds,  
May justly praise, and blame my lovelesse 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 her hard heart, beg till you have moved her,  
And tell th'unkind, how decrely I have loved her.   

SONNET. III  
IF so it hap, this offspring of my care,  
These fatal Anthems, sad and mournful songs:  
Come to their view, who like afflicted are;  
Ah let them sigh their own, and moon my wrongs.  
But untouched hats, with unaffected eye,  
Approach not to behold so great distress:  
Clear-sighted you, soon note what is awry,  
Whilst blinded one's mine errors never guess.  
You blinded souls whom youth and errors lead,  
You outcast Eaglets, dazzled with your sun:  
Ah you, and none but you my sorrows read,  
You best can judge the wrongs that she hath done.  
That she hath done, the motive of my pain,  
Who whilst I loven, doth kill me with disdain.   

SONNET. FOUR  
THese plaintive verse, the Posts of my desire,  
Which haste for secure to her slow regard:  
Bear not report of any slender fire,  
Forging a grief to win a fame's reward.  
Nor are my passions lymnd for outward hew,  
For that not colours can depaint my sorrows:  
DELIA herself, and all the world may view  
Best in my face, where cares hath tilled deep furrows.  
Not Bays I seek to deck my mourning brow,  
OH cleer-eyde Rector of the holy Hill:  
My humble accents bear the Olive bough,  
Of intercession to a Tyrants william  
These lines I use, t'vnburthen mine own heart;  
My love affects not fame, nor steams of Art   

SONNET. V  
WHilst youth and error led my wandering mind,  
And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range:  
All unawares, a Goddess chaste I find,  
(Diana-like) to work my sudden change.  
For her not sooner had mine eye bewrayed,  
But with disdain to see me in that place:  
With fairest hand, the sweet unkindest maid,  
Casts water-cold disdain upon my face.  
Which turned my sport into a Heart's despair,  
Which still is chased, while I have any breath,  
By mine own thoughts; set on me by my fair:  
My thoughts (like hounds) pursue me to my death.  
Those that I fostered of mine own accord,  
Are made by her to murder thus their Lord   

SONNET. VI  
Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair;  
Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny;  
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair;  
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey.  
A modest maid, decked with a blush of honour,  
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth & love,  
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her:  
Sacred on earth, designed a Saint above.  
Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,  
Live reconciled friends within her brow:  
And had she pity to conjoin with those,  
Than who had herded the plaints I utter now.  
OH had she not been fair, and thus unkind,  
My Muse had slept, & none had known my mind.   

SONNET. UII.  
OH Had she not been fair and thus unkind,  
Than had not finger pointed at my lightness:  
The world had never known what I do find,  
And clouds obscure had shaded still her brightness.  
Than had not Censors eye these lines surveyed,  
Nor graver brows have judged my Muse so vain;  
Not sun my blush and error had bewrayed,  
Nor yet the world had herded of such disdain.  
Than had I walked with bold erected face,  
Not downcast look had signified my miss:  
But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace  
Did force me groan out griefs, and utter this.  
For being full, should I not than have spoken,  
My sense oppressed, had failed, and heart had broken.   

SONNET. VIII.  
THou poor heart sacrificed unto the fairest,  
Hast sent the incens of thy sighs to heaven:  
And still against her frowns fresh vows repayrest,  
And made thy passions with her beauty even.  
And you mine eyes, the agents of my heart,  
Told the dumb message of my hidden grief:  
And often with careful turns, with silent Art,  
Did treat the cruel Fair to yield relief.  
And you my verse, the Advocates of love,  
Have followed hard the process of my case:  
And urged that title which doth plainly prove,  
My faith should win, if justice might have place.  
Yet though I see, that naught we do can move her,  
'tis not disdain must make me cease to love her.   

SONNET. IX.  
IF this be love, to draw a weary breath,  
Paint on floods, till the shore cry to th'air:  
With downward looks, still reading on the earth;  
The sad memorial of my loves despair.  
If this be love, to war against my soul,  
Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve,  
The never-resting stone of care to roll,  
Still to complain my griefs, whilst none relieve.  
If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,  
Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart;  
My pleasure's horror, Music tragic notes,  
Tears in mine eyes, and sorrow at my heart.  
If this be love, to live a living death,  
OH than love I, and draw this weary breath.   

SONNET. X.  
OH Than love I, and draw this weary breath,  
For her the cruel Fair, within whose brow,  
I written find the sentence of my death,  
In unkind letters; wrought she cares not how.  
OH thou that rul'st the confines of the night,  
Laughter-loving goddess, worldly pleasures Queen,  
Intencrat that heart that sets so light,  
The truest love that ever yet was seen.  
And 'cause her leave to triumph in this wise,  
Upon the prostrate spoil of that poor heart:  
That serves a Trophy to her conquering eyes,  
And must their glory to the world impart.  
Once let her know, she hath done enough to prove me,  
And let her pity if she cannot love me.   

SONNET. XI.  
Tears, vows and prayers, win the hardest heart;  
Tears, vows and prayers, have I spent in vain;  
Tears cannot soften Flint, nor vows conuart,  
Prayers prevail not with a acquaint disdain.  
I loose my tears, where I have lost my love,  
I vow my faith, where faith is not regarded,  
I pray in vain, a merciless to move:  
So rare a faith aught better be rewarded;  
Yet though I cannot win her will with tears,  
Though my souls I doll scorneth all my vows;  
Though all my prayers be to so deaf ears,  
Not savour though the cruel fair allows,  
Yet will I weep, vow, pray to cruel she:  
Flint, frost, disdain, wears, melts, and yields we see.   

SONNET. XII.  
MY spotless love hoouers with purest wings,  
About the temple of the proudest frame:  
Where blaze those lights fairest of earthly things, which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.  
M'ambitious thoughts confined in her face,  
Affect not honour but what she can give,  
My hopes do rest in limits of her grace,  
I weigh not comfort unless she relieve.  
For she that can my heart imparadise,  
Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is,  
My fortune's wheeles the circle of her eyes,  
Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.  
All my lives sweet consists in her alone,  
So much I love the most unloving one.   

SONNET. XIII.  
BEhold what hap Pygmalion had to frame,  
And carve his proper grief upon a stone,  
My heavy fortune is much like the same,  
I work on Flint, and that's the cause I moon.  
For hapless lo even with mine own desires,  
I figured on the Table of mine heart,  
The fairest form, that all the world admires,  
And so did perish by my proper art.  
And still I toil, to change the Marble breast  
Of her, whose sweetest grace I do adore,  
Yet cannot find her breath unto my rest,  
Hard is her heart, and woe is me therefore.  
OH happy he that joyed his stone and art,  
Unhappy I to love a stony heart.   

SONNET. XIIII.  
THose snary locks, are those same nets (my Deer,)  
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise;  
Love was the flame that fired me so near,  
The Dart transpearsing, were those Crystal eyes.  
Strong is the net, and fervent is the flame;  
Deep is the wound my sighs do well report:  
Yet do I love, adore, and praise the same,  
That holds, that burns, that wounds me in this sort.  
And list not seek to break, to quench, to heal,  
The bond, the flame, the wound that festreth so,  
By knife, by liquor, or by salve to deal:  
So much I please to perish in my woe.  
Yet lest long travails be above my strength,  
Good DELIA loose, quench, heal me now at length.   

SONNET. XV.  
IF that a loyal heart and faith unfeigned,  
If a sweet languish with a chaste desire,  
If hunger-staruen thoughts so long retained,  
Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire.  
And if a brow with cares characters painted,  
Bewrays my love, with broken words half spoken,  
To her that sits in my thoughts Temple sainted,  
And lays to view my Vultur-gnawne heart open.  
If I have done due homage to her eyes,  
And had my sighs still tending on her name;  
If on her love my life and honour lies,  
And she (th'vnkindest maid) still scorns the same,  
Let this suffice, that all the world may see,  
The fault is hers, though mine the hurt must be.   

SONNET. XUI  
HAppy in sleep, waking content to languish,  
Embracing clouds by night, in day time mourn,  
My joys but shadows, touch of truth my anguish,  
Griefs ever springing, comforts never born.  
And still expecting when she will relent,  
Grown hoarse with crying mercy, mercy give;  
So many vows, and prayers having spent,  
That weary of myself, I loath to live.  
And yet the Hydra of my cares renews,  
Still new-born sorrows of her fresh disdain:  
And still my hope the Summer winds pursues,  
Finding not end nor period of my pain.  
This is my state, my griefs do touch so nearly,  
And thus I live because I love her dearly.   

SONNET. XVII.  
WHy should I sing in verse, why should I frame,  
These sad neglected notes for her dear sake?  
Why should I offer up unto her name,  
The sweetest sacrifice my youth can make?  
Why should I strive to make her live for ever,  
That never deigns to give me joy to live?  
Why should m'afflicted Muse so much endeavour,  
Such honour unto cruelty to give?  
If her defects have purchased her this fame,  
What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love?  
If this her worst, how should her best inflame?  
What passions would her milder favours move?  
Favours (I think) would sense quite overcome,  
And that makes happy Lovers ever dumb.   

SONNET. XVIII.  
SInce the first look that led me to this error,  
To this thoughts-maze, to my confusion tending:  
Still have I lived in grief, in hope, in error,  
The circle of my sorrows never ending.  
Yet cannot leave her love that holds me hateful,  
Her eyes exact it, though her her disdains me;  
See what reward he hath that serves the ungrateful,  
So true and loyal love not favour gains me.  
Still must I whet my young desires abated,  
Upon the Flint of such a heart rebelling;  
And all in vain, her pride is so innated,  
She yields not place at all for pittyes dwelling.  
Often have I told her that my soul did love her,  
(And that with tears,) yet all this will not move her.   

SONNET. XIX.  
REstore thy tresses to the golden Ore,  
Yield Citherea's son those arks of love;  
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore,  
And to the Orient do thy Pearls remove.  
Yield thy hands pride unto the ivory white,  
THE Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet:  
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright,  
To Thetis give the honour of thy feet.  
Let Venus have thy graces, her resigned,  
And thy sweet voice give back unto the Spheres:  
But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind,  
To Hyrcan Tigers, and to ruthless Bears.  
Yield to the Marble thy hard heart again;  
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain.   

SONNET. XX.  
IF Beauty thus be clouded with a frown,  
That pity shines not comfort to my bliss,  
And vapours of disdain so overgrown,  
That my lives light thus wholly darkened is.  
Why should I more molest the world with cries?  
The air with sighs, the earth below with tears?  
Sith I live hateful to thōse ruthless eyes,  
Vexing with untuned moan her dainty ears.  
If I have loved her dearer than my breath,  
My breath that calls the heavens to witness it:  
And still must hold her dear till after death.  
And if that all this cannot move a whit,  
Yet let her say, that she hath done me wrong,  
To use me thus, and know I loved so long.   

SONNET. XXI.  
COme Death the anchorhold of all my thoughts,  
My last resort whereto my soul appeals,  
For all too-long on earth my fancy dotes,  
Whilst age upon my wasted body steals.  
That heart being made the prospective of horror,  
That honoured hath the cruelest fair that lives,  
The cruelest fair, that seas I languish for her,  
Yet never mercy to my merit gives.  
This is her Laurel and her triumphs prise,  
To tread me down with foot of her disgrace:  
Whilst I did build my fortune in her eyes,  
And laid my lives rest on so fair a face;  
Which rest I lost, my love, my life and all,  
So high attempts to low disgraces fall.   

SONNET. XXII.  
THese sorrowing sighs, the smokes of mine annoy,  
These tears, which heat of sacred flame distills,  
Are those due tributes that my faith doth pay  
Unto the Tyrant, whose unkindness kills.  
I sacrifice my youth, and blooming years,  
At her proud feet, and she respects not it:  
My flower vntimely's withered with my tears,  
And Winter woes, for spring of youth unfit.  
She thinks a look may recompense my care,  
And so with looks, prolongs my long-looked ease,  
As short that bliss, so is the comfort rare,  
Yet must that bliss my hungry thoughts appease.  
Thus she returns my hopes so fruitless ever,  
Once let her love indeed, or eye me never.   

SONNET. XXIII.  
FAlse Hope prolongs my ever certain grief,  
Traitor to me, and faithful to my Love:  
A thousand times it promised me relief,  
Yet never any true effect I prove.  
Often when I found in her not truth at all,  
I banish her, and blame her treachery;  
Yet soon again I must her back recall,  
As one that dies without her company.  
Thus often as I chase my hope from me,  
straightway she hastes her unto DELIAS' eyes,  
Fed with some pleasing look there shall she be,  
And so sent back, and thus my fortune lies.  
Looks feed my Hope, Hope fosters me in vain,  
Hopes are unsure, when certain is my pain.   

SONNET. XXIIII.  
Look in my griefs, and blame me not to mourn,  
From care to care that leads a life so bad;  
The Orphan of Fortune, born to be her scorn,  
Whose clouded brow doth make my days so sad.  
Long are their nights whose cares do never sleep,  
Loathsome their days, whom not sun ever joyed,  
Her fairest eyes do penetrate so deep,  
That thus I live both day and night annoyd.  
But sith the sweetest root doth yield thus much,  
Her praise from my complaint I may not part:  
I love the effect for that the cause is such,  
I'll praise her face, and blame her flinty heart.  
Whilst that we make the world admire at us,  
Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.   

SONNET. XXU  
Reign in my thoughts fair hand, sweet eye, rare voice,  
Possess me whole, my hearts 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 naught 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 reigned 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.   

SONNET. XXVI. Alluding to the Sparrow pursued by a Hawk, that flew into the bosom of Zenocrates.  
WHilst by her eyes pursued, my poor heart flew it,  
Into the sacred bosom of my dearest:  
She there in that sweet sanctuary slay it,  
Where it presumed his safety to be nearest.  
My privilege of faith could not protect it,  
That was with blood & three years witness signed:  
In all which time she never could suspect it,  
For well she saw my love, and how I pined.  
And yet not comfort would her brow reveal me,  
Not lightning look, which falling hopes erecteth;  
What boots to laws of succour to appeal me?  
Ladies and Tyrants, never laws respecteth.  
Than there I die, where hoped I to have liuen;  
And by that hand, which better might have given.   

SONNET. XXVII.  
STill in the trace of my tormented thought,  
My ceaseless cars must mattch on to my death:  
Thy least regard too dear have I bought,  
Who to my comfort never deign'st a breath.  
Why shouldst thou stop thy cares now to my cries,  
Whose eyes were open, ready to oppress me?  
Why shutt'st thou not the cause whence all did rise,  
Or hear me now, and seek how to redress me?  
Injurious DELIA, yet He love thee still,  
Whilst that I breath in sorrow of my smart:  
I'll tell the world that I deserved but ill,  
And blame myself for to excuse thy heart.  
Than judge who sins the greater of us twain,  
I in my love, or thou in thy disdain.   

SONNET. XXVIII.  
Often do I marvel, whether DELIAS' 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 rule the Orb of my poor heart?  
Fixed sure they are, but wandering make me stray,  
In endless errors, whence I cannot part.  
Stars than, not eyes, move you with milder view,  
Your sweet aspect on him that honour's you.   

SONNET. XXIX.  
THE star of my mishap imposed this pain,  
To spend the April of my years in wailing,  
That ever found my fortune in the wain,  
With still fresh cares my present woes assailing.  
Yet her I blame not, though for her 'tis done,  
But my desires wings so high aspiring,  
Which now are melted by that glorious Sun,  
That makes in fall from of my high desiring.  
And in my fall, I cry for help with speed.  
Not pitying eye looks back upon my mourning,  
Not succour find I now when most I need,  
The Ocean of my tears must drown me burning.  
Whilst my distress shall christen her a new,  
And give the Cruel Fair this title due.   

SONNET. XXX.  
AND yet I cannot reprehend the flight,  
Or blame th'attempt presuming so to sore,  
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 honour, great designs their fame,  
Glory doth follow courage goes before.  
And though th'event often answers not the same,  
Suffice that high attempts have never shame.  
The Meane-obseruer, (whom base Safety keeps,)  
lives without honour, dyes without a name,  
And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.  
And therefore DELIA, 'tis to me not blot,  
To have attempted, though attained thee not.   

SONNET. XXXI.  
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 aspiring will,  
Was not to dispossess her of her right:  
Her sovereignty should have remained 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.   

SONNET. XXXII.  
OH Why doth DELIA credit so her glass,  
Gazing her beauty deigned her by the skies;  
And doth 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 your wounding glances are,  
Upon myself you best may found the form.  
Than leave your glass, and gaze yourself on me,  
That Mirror shows what power is in your face:  
To view your form too much, may danger be,  
Narcissus changed t'a flower in such a case.  
And you are changed, but not t'a Hiacint;  
I fear your eye hath turned your heart to flint.   

SONNET. XXXIII.  
I Once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,  
When golden hairs shall change to silver wire:  
And those bright rays that kindle all this fire,  
Shall fail in force, their working not so strong.  
Than beauty, (now the burden of my song,)  
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,  
Must yield up all to tyrant Times desire;  
Than fade those flowers that decked her pride so long.  
When, if she grieve to gaze her in the glass,  
Which than presents her winter-withered hue,  
Go you my verse, go tell her what she was;  
For what she was she best shall find in you.  
Your fiery heat let's not her glory pass,  
But (Phenix-like) shall make her live anew.   

SONNET. XXXIIII.  
Look Delia how we steam the half blown Rose,  
The image of thy blush, and summers honour:  
Whilst in her tender green she doth enclose,  
The pure sweet beauty Time bestows upon her.  
Not sooner spreads her glory in the air,  
But strait her full-blown pride is in declining;  
She than is scorned that late adorned the fair:  
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.  
Not April can revive thy withered flowers,  
Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now:  
Swift speedy Time, feathered with flying hours,  
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.  
OH let not than such richeses waste in vain,  
But love whilst that thou mayst be loved again.   

SONNET. XXXV.  
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 lours.  
And whilst thou spread'st unto the rising sun,  
The fairest flower that ever see 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 will't close up that which now thou showest,  
And think the same becomes thy fading best,  
Which than shall hid it most, and cover lowest.  
Men do not weigh the stalk for that it was,  
When once they found her flower her glory pass.   

SONNET. XXXVI.  
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 go;  
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:  
Than what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,  
And that thou waste unkind, thou mayst repent.  
Thou-babes mayst repent that thou hast scorned my tears,  
When winter snows upon thy golden hairs.   

SONNET. XXXVII.  
WHen Winter snows upon thy golden hairs,  
And frost of age hath nipped thy flowers near,  
When dark shall seem thy day that never clears,  
And all lies withered that was held so dear.  
Than take this picture which I here present thee,  
Limned with a Pencil not all unworthy:  
Hear see the gifts that God and nature lent thee,  
Hear 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, than thou shalt live thereby.  
They will remain, and so thou canst not die.   

SONNET. XXXVIII.  
THou canst not die whilst any zeal abound  
In feeling hearts, that can conceive these lines;  
Though thou a Laura hast not 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 I'll.  
And if my pen could more enlarge thy name,  
Than shouldst thou live in an immortal stile.  
For though that Laura better limned be,  
Suffice, thou shalt be loved as well as she.   

SONNET. THIRTY-NINE.  
OH Be not grieved 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, when thy is graved in Marble.  
Thou-babes 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 not disgrace that I have loved thee.   

SONNET. XL.  
DELIA, these eyes that so admireth thy,  
Have seen those walls the which ambition reared,  
To check the world, how they entombed have lyen.  
Within thēselues; & on them ploughs have eared.  
Yet found I that not barbarous hand attained.  
The spoil of same deserved by virtuous men:  
Whose glorious actions luckily had gained,  
Th'eternal Annals of a happy pen.  
Why them though DELIA fade, let that not move her,  
Though time do spoil her of the fairest vail  
That ever yet mortality did cover;  
Which must instarre the needle and the Rail.  
That grace, that virtue, all that served t'in-woman,  
Doth thee unto eternity assommon.   

SONNET. XLI.  
Fair and lovely maid, look from the shore,  
See thy Leander striving in these waves:  
Poor soul quite spent, whose force can do not more,  
Now sand forth hopes, 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 thy 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.  
OH than let th'Ocean of my care found shore,  
That thou be pleased, and I may sigh not more.   

SONNET. XLII.  
Read in my face a volume of despairs,  
The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe;  
Drawn with my blood, & printed 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-gratefull to her eyes,  
Because their power serve to exact the same.  
Thus ruins she (to satisfy her will,)  
The Temple, where her name was honoured still.   

SONNET. XLIII.  
MY DELIA hath the waters of mine eyes,  
The ready handmaids on her grace attending:  
That never fall to ebb, but ever rise,  
For to their flow she never grants an ending.  
Th'Ocean never did attend more duly  
Upon his sovereigns' course, the night's pale Queen,  
Nor paid the impost of his waves more truly,  
Than mine unto her Deity have been.  
Yet naught the rock of that hard heart can move,  
Where beat these tears with zeal, & fury driveth,  
And yet I rather languish in her love,  
Than I would joy the fairest she that liveth.  
I doubt to find such pleasure in my gaining,  
As now I taste, in compass of complaining.   

SONNET. XLIIII.  
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 she cannot but must needs confess it,  
Yet deigns not with one simple sign t'express it.   

SONNET. XLV.  
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 strait 'tis go as it had never been.  
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,  
Short is the glory of the blushing Rose:  
The hew which thou so carefully dost nourish,  
Yet which at length thou must be forced to loose.  
When thou surcharged with burden of thy years,  
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,  
When time hath made a passport for thy sears,  
Dated in age the Kalends of our death.  
But ah not more, this hath been often told,  
And women grieve to think they must be old.   

SONNET. XLVI.  
I Must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would reed  
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 together flowers before they whither:  
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.  
I hope to say, when all my griefs are go,  
Happy the heart that sighed for such a one.   

SONNET. XLVII. At the Authors going into Italy.  
OH Whether (poor forsaken) will't thou go,  
To go from sorrow, and thy own distress,  
When every place presents like face of woe,  
And not remove can make thy sorrows less?  
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 lest release unto thy grief:  
Convey thee from the thought of thy disgrace,  
Steal from thyself, and be thy cares own thief.  
But yet what comfort shall I hereby gain?  
Bearing the wonnd, I needs must feel the pain.   

SONNET. XLVIII. This Sonnet was made at the Authors being in Italy.  
Drawn with th'attractive virtue of her eyes,  
My touched heart turns it to that happy cost:  
My joyful North, where all my fortune lies,  
The level of my hopes desired most.  
There where my DAELIA, fairer than the Sun,  
Decked with her youth whereon the world doth smile,  
joys in that honour which her eyes have won,  
Th'eternal wonder of our happy Isle.  
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.   

SONNET. XLIX.  
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 cares return.  
And let the day be time enough to mourn,  
The shipwreck of my ill adventred youth:  
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,  
Without the torment of the night's untruth.  
Cease dreams, th'imaginary of our day desire's,  
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 seel the days disdain.   

SONNET. L.  
LET others sing of Knights and Palladines,  
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 lived, and was thy lover.   

SONNET. LIVELY  
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 I 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 waste unkind,  
But happier yet, if thou wouldst change thy mind.   

SONNET. LII.  
LIke as the Lute, that joys 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 deskant on the sweetest ground,  
Whose due reports give honour to her eyes.  
Else harsh my stile, untunable my Muse,  
Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name,  
If any pleasing relish here I use,  
Than judge the world her beauty gives the same.  
OH happy ground that makes the music such,  
And blessed hand that gives so sweet a touch,   

SONNET. LIII.  
NOne other fame mine unambitious Muse,  
Affected ever, but t'eternize thee:  
All other honours do my hopes refuse,  
Which meaner prized and momentary be.  
For God forbidden I should my papers blot,  
With mercynarie lines, with servile pen:  
Praising virtues in them that have them not,  
Basely attending on the hopes of men.  
Not not, my verse respects nor Thames nor theatres,  
Nor seeks it to be known unto the great,  
But Auon poor in fame, and poor in waters,  
Shall have my song where DELIA hath her seat.  
Auon shall be my Thames, and she my song,  
I'll sound her name the River all along.   

SONNET. liv.  
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 vnrespecting 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 sith she scorns her own, this rests for me,  
I'll moon myself, and hid the wrong I have,  
And so content me that her frowns should be  
To m'infant style the cradle and the grave.  
What though myself not honour get thereby,  
Each bird sings to herself, and so will 1   

SONNET. LU.  
Lo here the impost of a faith vnfayning,  
That love hath paid, and her disdain extorted:  
Behold the message of my just complaining,  
That shows the world how much my grief imported.  
These tributary plaints fraught with desire,  
I sand those eyes, the cabinets of love;  
The Paradise whereto my hopes aspire,  
From out this hell, which mine afflictions prove.  
Wherein I thus do live, cast down from mirth,  
Pensive alone, none but despair about me,  
My joys abortive, perished at their birth,  
My cares long lived, and will not die without me.  
This is my state, and DELIAS' heart is such;  
I say not more, I fear I said too much.   
FINIS.   

An Ode.  

NOW each creature joys the other, passing happy days and hours,  
One bird reports unto an other, in the fall of silver showers,  
Whilst the earth (our common mother,) hath her bosom decked with flowers.   

Whilst the greatest Torch of heaven, with bright rays warms FLORA'S lap,  
Making nights and days both even, cheering plants with fresher sap:  
My field of flowers quite bereaven, wants refresh of better hap.   

ECHO, daughter of the Air, (babbling guest of Rocks and Hills,)  
Knows the name of my fierce Fatre, And sounds the accents of my ills.  
Each thing pities my despair, whilst that she her Lover kills.   

Whilst that she (OH cruel Maid,) doth me and my love despise,  
My lives flourish is decayed, that depended on her eyes:  
But her will must be obeyed, and well he ends for love who dyes.   
FINIS.   

THE Complaint of ROSAMOND.   

THE COMPLAINT OF ROSAMOND.  

OUT from the horror of infernal deeps,  
My poor afflicted ghost comes here to plain it,  
Attended with my shame that never sleeps,  
The spot wherewith my kind and youth did stain it.  
My body found a grave where to contain it.  
A sheet could hid my face, but not my sin,  
For Fame finds never tomb t'enclose it in.   

And which is worse, my soul is now denied,  
Her transport to the sweet Elysian rest,  
The joyful bliss for ghosts repurified,  
The ever-springing Gardens of the blessed,  
Charon denies me wastage with the rest.  
And says, my soul can never pass the River,  
Till lovers sighs on earth shall it deliver.   

So shall I never pass; for how should I  
Procure this sacrifice among the living?  
Time hath long since worn out the memory,  
Both of my life, and lives unjust depriving,  
Sorrow for me is dead for ay reviving.  
ROSAMOND hath little left her but her name,  
And that disgraced, for time hath wronged the same.   

Not Muse suggests the pity of my case,  
Each pen doth overpass my just complaint,  
Whilst others are preferred, though far more base;  
Shore's wife is graced, and passes for a Saint;  
Her Legend justifies her foul attaint.  
Her wel-told tale did such compassion find,  
That she is passed, and I an left behind.   

Which seen with grief, my miserable ghost,  
(Whilom invested in so fair a vail,  
Which whilst it lived, was honoured of the most,  
And being dead, gives matter to bewail.)  
Comes to solicit thee, (since others fail,)  
To take this task, and in thy woeful song  
To form my case, and register my wrong.   

Although I know thy just lamenting Muse,  
Toiled in th'affliction of thy own distress,  
In others cares hath little time to use,  
And therefore mayst esteem of mine the less:  
Yet as thy hopes attend happy redress,  
Thy joys depending on a woman's grace,  
So move thy mind a woeful woman's case.   

DELIA may hap to deign to read our story,  
And offer up her sigh among the rest,  
Whose merit would suffice for both our glory,  
Whereby thou mightst be graced, and I be blessed;  
That indulgence would profit me the best.  
Such power she hath by whom thy youth is led,  
To joy the living, and to bless the dead.   

So I (through beauty) made the woefull'st wight,  
By beauty might have comfort after death:  
That dying fairest, by the fairest might  
Found life above on earth, and rest beneath.  
She that can bless us with one happy breath.  
Give comfort to thy Muse to do her best,  
That thereby thou mayst joy, and I might rest.   

Thus said: forthwith moved with a tender care,  
And pity, (which myself could never find,)  
What she desired, my Muse deigned to declare,  
And therefore, willed her boldly tell her mind.  
And I (more willing,) took this charge assigned,  
Because her griefs were worthy to be known,  
And telling hers might hap forget mine own.   

Than writ (quoth she) the ruin of my youth,  
Report the downfall of my slippery state,  
Of all my life reveal the simple truth,  
To teach to others what I learned too late.  
Exemplify my frailty, tell how Fate  
Keeps in eternal dark our fortunes hidden,  
And ere they come, to know them 'tis forbidden.   

For whilst the sunshine of my fortune lasted,  
I joyed the happiest warmth, the sweetest heat  
That ever yet imperious beauty tasted,  
I had what glory ever flesh could get:  
But this fair morning had a shameful set.  
Disgrace darkt honour, sin did cloud my brow,  
As note the sequel, and I'll tell thee how.   

The blood I stained, was good and of the best,  
My birth had honour, and my beauty fame:  
Nature and Fortune joined to make me blessed,  
Had I had grace t'have known to use the same.  
My education show'd from whence I came,  
And all concurd to make me happy furst,  
That so great hap might make me more accursed.   

Happy lived I, whilst Parents eye did guide,  
The indiscretion of my feeble ways,  
And Country home kept me from being eyed,  
Where best unknown I spent my sweetest days;  
Till that my friends mine honour sought to raise,  
To higher place, which greater credit yields,  
Deeming such beauty was unfit for seeldes.   

From Country than to Court I was preferred,  
From calm to storms, from shore into the deeps:  
There where I perrish'd, where my youth first erred,  
There where I lost the flower which honour keeps;  
There where the worse thrives, the better weeps;  
Ah me (poor wench,) on this unhappy shelf,  
I grounded me, and cast away myself.   

For thither comed, when years had armed my youth,  
With rarest proof of beauty ever seen:  
When my reviving eye had learned the truth,  
That it had power to make the winter green,  
And flower affections whereas none had been;  
Soon could I teach my brow to tyrannize,  
And make the world do homage to mine eyes.   

For age I see, (though years with cold conceit,  
Congealed their thoughts against a warm desire,)  
Yet sigh their want, and look at such a bait.  
I see how youth was wax before the fire.  
I see by stealth, I framed my look a lyre.  
Yet well perceived, how Fortune made me than  
The envy of my sex, and wonder unto men.   

Look how a Comet at the first appearing.  
Draws all man's eyes with wonder to behold it;  
Or as the faddest tale at sudden hearing,  
Makes silent lishring unto him that told it,  
So did my speech when Rubies did unfold it.  
So did the blazing of my blush appear,  
T'amaze the world, that holds such sights so dear.   

Ah beauty Syred, fair enchanting good,  
Sweet silent rhetoric of persuading eyes:  
Dumb eloquence, whose power doth move the blood,  
Moore than the words, or wisdom of the wise;  
Still harmony, whose diapason lies  
Within a brow, the key which passions move,  
To ravish sense, and play a world in love.   

What might I than not do whose power was such?  
What cannot women do that know their power?  
What women knows it not (I fear too much)  
How bliss or bale lies in their laugh or lower?  
Whilst they enjoy their happy blooming flower,  
Whilst nature decks her her proper fair  
Which cheers the world, joys each sight, sweetens th'air.   

Such one was I, my beauty was mine own,  
Not borrowed blush which banck-rot beauties seek:  
That newfound shame, a sin to us unknown,  
Th'adulterate beauty of a falsed cheek:  
wild stain to honour, and to women eke,  
Seeing that time our fading must detect,  
Thus with defect to cover our defect.   

Impiety of times, chastitles abator,  
Falsehood, wherein thyself thy self deniest:  
Treason, to sergeant the seal of Nature,  
The stamp of heaven, impressed by the highest.  
Disgrace unto the world, to whom thou liest.  
Idol unto thyself, shame to the wise,  
And all that honour thee idolatrise.   

far was that sin from us whose age was pure,  
When simple beauty was accounted best,  
The time when women had not other lure  
But modesty, pure cheeks, a virtuous breast.  
This was the pomp wherewith my youth was blessed.  
These were the weapons which mine honour won  
In all the conflicts which mine eyes begun.   

Which were not small, I wrought on not mean object,  
A Crown was at my feet, Sceptres obeyed me,  
Whom Fortune made my King, Love made my subject,  
Who did command the land, most humbly prayed me,  
HENRY the second, that so highly weighed me,  
Found well (by proof) the privilege of Beauty,  
That it had power to countermand all duty.   

For after all his victories in FRANCE,  
Triumphing in the honour of his deeds:  
Unmatched by sword, was vanquished by a glance,  
And hotter wars within his bosom breeds.  
Wars, whom whole Legions of desires feeds.  
Against all which, my chastity opposes  
The field of honour, virtue never loses.   

Not armour might be found that could defend,  
Transpearcing rays of Crystal pointed eyes:  
Not stratagem, not reason could amend,  
Not not his age; (yet old men should be wise.)  
But shows deceive, outward appearance lies.  
Let none for seeming so, think Saints of others,  
For all are men, and all have sucked their mothers.   

Who would have thought a Monarch would have ever  
Obeyed his handmaid of so mean estate;  
Vultur ambition feeding on his liver,  
Age having worn his pleasures out of date,  
But hap comes never, or it comes too late.  
For such a dainty which his youth found not,  
Unto his feeble age did chance allot.   

Ah Fortune, never absolutely good,  
For that some cross still counter-checks our luck;  
As here behold th'incompatible blood,  
Of age and youth was that whereon we stuck:  
Whose loathing, we from nature's breasts do suck,  
As opposite to what our blood requires.  
For equal age, doth equal like desires.   

But mighty men, in highest honour sitting,  
Naught but applause and pleasure can behold:  
Soothed in their liking, careless what is fitting,  
May not be suffered once to think they're old:  
Not trusting what they see, but what is told.  
Miserable fortune to forget so far,  
The state of flesh, and what our frailties are.   

Yet must I needs excuse so great defect,  
For drinking of the Lethe of mine eyes,  
he's forced forget himself, and all respect  
Of majesty, whereon his state relies:  
And now of loves, and pleasures must devise.  
For thus reviv'd again, he serves and su'th,  
And seeks all means to undermine my youth.   

Which never by assault he could recover,  
So well encamped in strength of chaste desires:  
My cleane-arm'd thoughts repelled an unchaste lover.  
The Crown that could command what it requires,  
I lesser prized than chastity's attires.  
Th'vnstained vail, which innocents' adorns,  
Th'vngathred Rose, defended with the thorns.   

And safe mine honour stood, till that in truth,  
One of my sex, of place, and nature bad,  
Was set in ambush to entrap my youth.  
One in the habit of like frailty clad.  
One who the liu'ry of like weakness had.  
A seeming Matron, yet a sinful Monster,  
As by her words the chaster sort may construe.   

She set upon me with the smoothest speech  
That Court and age could cunningly devise:  
Th'one authentic, made her fit to teach,  
The other learned her how to subtelise.  
Both were enough to cirumvent the wise.  
A document that well may teach the sage,  
That there's not trust in youth, nor hope in age.   

Daughter (said she,) behold thy happy chance,  
That hast the lot cast down into thy lap,  
Whereby thou mayst thy honour great advance,  
Whilst thou (unhappy) will't not see thy hap:  
Such fond respect thy youth doth so inwrap,  
T'oppose thyself against thy own good fortune,  
That points thee out, & seems thee to importune.   

Dost thou not see, how that thy King (thy jove,)  
Lightens forth glory on thy dark estate:  
And showers down gold and treasure from above,  
Whilst thou dost shut thy lap against thy fate?  
Fie fondling fie, thou will't repent too late  
The error of thy youth; that canst not see  
What is the fortune that doth follow thee.   

Thou-babes must not think thy flower can always flourish,  
And that they beauty will be still admired:  
But that those rays which all these flames do nourish,  
canceled with Time, will have their date expired,  
And men will scorn what now is so desired.  
Our frailties doom is written in the flowers,  
Which flourish now, and fade ere many hours.   

Read in my face the ruins of my youth,  
The wrack of years upon my aged brow,  
I have been fair, (I must confess the truth,)  
And stood upon as nice respects as thou;  
I lost my time, and I repent it now.  
But were I to begin my youth again,  
I would redeem the time I spent in vain.   

But thou hast years, and privilege to use them,  
Thy privilege doth bear Beauties great seal;  
Besides, the law of nature doth excuse them,  
To whom thy youth may have a just appeal.  
Esteem not Fame more than thou dost thy weal.  
Fame, (whereof the world seems to make such choice,)  
Is but an Echo, and an idle voice.   

Than why should this respect of honour bond us,  
In the imaginary lists of reputation?  
Titles which cold severity hath found us,  
Breath of the vulgar, foe to recreation:  
Melancholies opinion, Customs relation;  
Pleasures plague, beauty's scourge, hell to the fair,  
To leave the sweet, for Castles in the air.   

Pleasure is felt, opinion but conceived,  
Honour, a thing without us, not our own:  
Whereof we see how many are bereaved,  
Which should have reaped the glory they had sown.  
And many have it, yet unworthy, known.  
So breathes his blast this many-headed beast,  
Whereof the wisest have esteemed lest.   

The subtle Citty-women, better learned,  
Esteem them chaste enough that best seem so:  
Who though they sport, it shall not be discerned,  
Their face bewrays not what their bodies do;  
'tis wary walking that doth safeliest go.  
With show of virtue, as the cunning knows,  
Babes are beguiled with sweets, & men with shows.   

Than use thy talent, youth shall be thy warrant,  
And let not honour from thy sports detract:  
Thou-babes must not fond think thyself transparent,  
That those who see thy face can judge thy fact,  
Let her have shame that cannot closely act.  
And seem the chaste, which is the chiefest art,  
For what we seem each see, none knows our heart.   

The mighty, who can with such sins dispense,  
In steed of shame do honours great bestow:  
A worthy author doth redeem th'offence,  
And makes the scarelet sin as white as snow.  
The Majesty that doth descend so low,  
Is not defiled, but pure remains therein,  
And being sacred, sanctifies the sin.   

What, dost thou stand on this, that he is old?  
Thy beauty hath the more to work upon.  
Thy pleasure's want shall be supply d with gold,  
Cold age dotes most when heat of youth is go:  
Enticing words prevail with such a one.  
Alluring shows most deep impression strikes,  
For age is prove to credit what it likes.   

Hear interrupt, she leaves me in a doubt,  
When lo begun the combat in my blood,  
Seeing my youth environed round about,  
The ground uncertain where my reasons stood;  
Small my defence to make my party good,  
Against such powers which were so surely laid,  
To overthrow a poor unskilful Maid.   

Treason was in my bones, myself conspiring,  
To cell myself to lust, my soul to sin:  
Pure-blushing shame was even in retiring,  
Leaving the sacred hold it gloried in.  
Honour lay prostrate for my flesh to win,  
When cleaner thoughts my weakness 'gan up bray,  
Against myself, and shame did force me say;   

Ah ROSAMOND, what doth thy flesh prepare?  
Destruction to thy days, death to thy fame;  
Will't thou betray that honour held with care,  
T'entomb with black reproach a spotted name,  
Leaving thy blush, the colours of thy shame.  
Opening thy feet to sin, thy soul to lust,  
Graceless to lay thy glory in the dust.   

Nay, first let th'earth gape wide to swallow thee,  
And shut thee up in bosom with her dead,  
E'er Serpent tempt thee taste for bidden Tree,  
Or feel the warmth of an unlawful bed;  
Suffering thyself by lust to be misled;  
So to disgrace thyself and grieve thy heirs,  
That Clifford's race should scorn thee one of there's.   

Never wish longer to enjoy the air,  
Than that thou breathest the breath of chastity:  
Longer than thou preseru'st thy soul as fair  
As is thy face, free from impurity.  
Thy face, that makes th'admir'd in every eye,  
Where Natures care such rarities inroule,  
Which used amiss, may serve to damn thy soul.   

But what? he is my King, & may constrain me,  
Whether I yield or not, I live defamed.  
The world will think authority did gain me,  
I shall be judged his Love, and so be shamed.  
We see the fair condemned, that never gamed.  
And if I yield, 'tis honourable shame,  
If not, I live disgraced, yet thought the same.   

What way is left thee than (unhappy maid,)  
Whereby thy spotless foot, may wander out  
This dreadful danger, which thou seest is laid,  
Wherein thy shame doth compass thee about?  
Thy simple years cannot resolve this doubt.  
Thy youth can never guide thy foot so even,  
But (in despite) some scandal will be given.   

Thus stood I balanced equally precise,  
Till my frail flesh did weigh me down to sin;  
Till world and pleasure made me partialize,  
And glittering pomp my vanity did win.  
When to excuse my fault my lusts begin.  
And impious thoughts alleged this wanton clause,  
That though I sinned, my sin had honest cause.   

So well the golden balls cast down before me,  
Can entertain my course, hinder my way:  
Whereat my reckless youth stooping to store me,  
Lost me the goal, the glory, and the day.  
Pleasure had set my wel-schoold thoughts to play,  
And bade me use the virtue of mine eyes,  
For sweetly it fits the fair to wantonise.   

Thus wrought to sin, soon was I trained from Court,  
T'a solitary Grange, there to attend  
The time the King should thither make resort,  
Where he loves long-desired work should end.  
Thither he daily messages doth sand,  
With costly jewels (Orators of love,)  
Which (ah too well men know) do women move.   

The day before the night of my defeature,  
He greets me with a Casket richly wrought;  
So rare, that art did seem to strive with nature,  
TO express the cunning workman's curious thought;  
The mystery whereof I prying sought.  
And found engraven on the lid above,  
Amymone, how she with Neptune strove.   

Amymone, old Danans fairest Daughter,  
As she was fetching water all alone  
At Lerna: whereas Neptune came and caught her,  
From whom she strived and struggled to be go,  
Beating the air with cries and piteous moan.  
But all in vain, with him she is forced to go,  
'tis shame that men should use poor maidens so.   

There might I see described how she lay,  
At those proud feet, not satis-fied with prayer:  
Wailing her heavy hap, cursing the day,  
In act so piteous to express dispatre.  
And by how much more grieved, so much more fair.  
Her tears upon her cheeks (poor careful girl,)  
Did seem against the sun crystal and pearl.   

Whose pure clear streams, (which lo so fair appears,)  
Wrought hotter flames, (o miracle of love,)  
That kindles fire in water, heat in tears,  
And makes neglected beauty mightier prove,  
Teaching afflicted eyes affects to move;  
To show that nothing ill becomes the fair,  
But cruelty, which yields unto not prayer.   

This having viewed, & therewith something moved,  
Figured I find within the other squares,  
Transformed IO, joves dearly loved,  
In her affliction how she strangely fares.  
Strangely distressed, (o beauty, born to cares.)  
Turned to a Heiffer, kept with jealous eyes,  
Always in danger of her hateful spies.   

These precedents presented to my view,  
Wherein the presage of my fall was shown,  
Might have fore-warn'd me well what would ensue,  
And others harms have made me eat mine own.  
But fate is not prevented, though foreknown.  
For that must hap, decreed by heavenly powers,  
Who work our fall, yet make the fault still ours.   

Witness the world, wherein is nothing rifer,  
Than miseries unkend before they come:  
Who can the characters of chance decipher,  
Written in clouds of our concealed doom?  
Which though perhaps have been revealed to some,  
Yet that so doubtful, (as success did prove them,)  
That men must know they have the heavens above them.   

I see the sin wherein my foot was entering,  
I see how that dishonour did attend it,  
I see the shame whereon my flesh was venturing,  
Yet had I not the power for to defend it.  
So weak is sense when error hath condemned it.  
We see what's good, and thereto we consent,  
But yet we choose the worst, and soon repent.   

And now I come to tell the worst of ilnes,  
Now draws the date of mine affliction near.  
Now when the dark had wrapped up all in stillness,  
And dreadful black had dispossessed the clear,  
Comed was the Night, (mother of sleep and fear;)  
Who with her Sable-mantle friendly covers,  
The sweet-stolne sports, of joyful meeting Lovers.   

When lo, I joyed my Lover, not my Love,  
And felt the hand of lust most undesired:  
Enforced th'vnprooued bitter sweet to prove,  
Which yields not mutual pleasure when 'tis hired.  
love's not constrained, nor yet of due required.  
judge they who are unfortunately wed,  
What 'tis to come unto a loathed bed.   

But soon his age received his short contenting,  
And sleep sealed up his languishing desires:  
When he turns to his rest, I to repenting,  
Into myself my waking thought retires:  
My nakedness had proved my senses liars.  
Now opened were mine eyes to look therein,  
For first we taste the fruit than see our sin.   

Now did I find myself vnparadis'd,  
From those pure fields of my so clean beginning:  
Now I perceived how ill I was advised,  
My flesh 'gan loath the new-felt touch of sinning.  
Shame leaves us by degrees, not at first winning.  
For nature cheques a new offence with loathing.  
But use of sin doth make it seem as nothing.   

And use of sin did work in me a boldness,  
And love in him, incorporates such zeal,  
That jealousy increased with age's coldness,  
Fearing to lose the joy of all his weal.  
Or doubting time his stealth might else reveal,  
HE is driven to devise somesubtile way,  
How he might safeliest keep so rich a prey.   

A stately Palace he forthwith did build,  
Whose intricate in numerable ways,  
With such confused errors so beguiled  
Th'vnguided entrers with uncertain strays,  
And doubtful turn kept them in delays,  
With bootless labour leading them about,  
Able to found not way, nor in, nor out.   

Within the closed bosom of which frame,  
That served a Centre to that goodly round:  
Were lodgings, with a Garden to the same,  
With sweetest flowers that e'er adorned the ground.  
And all the pleasures that delight hath found,  
T'entertain the sense of wanton eyes,  
Fuel of love, from whence lusts flames arise.   

Hear I enclosed from all the world a sunder,  
The Minotaur of shame kept for disgrace,  
The Monster of Fortune, and the world's wonder,  
Lived cloistered in so desolate a case:  
None but the King might come into the place.  
With certain Maids that did attend my need,  
And he himself came guided by a thread.   

OH jealousy, daughter of Enuy'and Love,  
Most wayward issue of a gentle Sire;  
Fostered with fears, thy Father's joys t'improve,  
Myrth-marring Monster, born a subtle liar;  
Hateful unto thyself, flying thy own desire:  
Feeding upon suspect that doth renew thee,  
Happy were Lovers if they never known thee.   

Thou-babes hast a thousand gates thou interest by,  
Condemning trembling passions to our heart;  
Hundred eyed Argus, everwaking Spy,  
Pale Hag, infernal Fury, pleasures smart,  
Envious observer, prying in every part;  
Suspicious, fearful, gazing still about thee,  
OH would to God that love could be without thee.   

Thou-babes didst deprive (through false suggesting fear,)  
Him of content, and me of liberty:  
The only good that women hold so dear,  
And turnst my freedom to captivity,  
First made a Frisoner, ere an enemy.  
Enioynd the ransom of my body's shame,  
Which though I paid, could not redeem the same.   

What greater torment ever could have been,  
Than to enforce the fair to live retired?  
For what is beauty if it be not seen?  
Or what is't to be seen, unless admired?  
And though admired, unless in love desired?  
Never were cheeks of Roses, locks of Amber,  
Ordained to live imprisoned in a Chamber.   

Nature created beauty for the view,  
(Like as the fire for heat, the Sun for light:)  
The fair do hold this privilege as due  
By ancient Charter, to live most in sight,  
And she that is debarred it, hath not right.  
In vain our friends (in this) use their dehorting,  
For beauty will be where is most resorting.   

Witness the fairest streets that Thames doth visit,  
The wondrous concourse of the glittering Fair:  
For what rare women decked with beauty is it,  
That thither covets not to make repair?  
The solitary Country may not stay her.  
Hear is the centre of all beauties best,  
Excepting DELIA, left t'adorn the West.   

Hear doth the curious with judicial eyes,  
Contemplate beauty gloriously attired:  
And herein all our chiefest glory lies,  
To live where we are praised and most desired.  
OH how we joy to see ourselves admired,  
Whilst niggardly our favours we discover,  
We love to be beloved, yet scorn the Lover.   

Yet would to God my foot had never moved  
From Country safety, from the fields of rest:  
To know the danger to be highly loved,  
And live in pomp to brave among the best,  
Happy for me, better had I been blessed;  
If I unluckily had never strayed,  
But lived at home a happy Country Maid.   

Whose unaffected innocency thinks  
Not guileful fraud, as doth the Courtly liver:  
She's decked with truth, the River where she drinks  
Doth serve her for her glass, her counsel giver:  
She loves sincerely, and is loved ever.  
Her days are peace, and so she ends her breath,  
(True life that knows not what's to diecil death.)   

So should I never have been registered,  
In the black book of the unfortunate:  
Nor had my name enrolled with Maids misled,  
Which bought their pleasures at so high a rate.  
Nor had I taught (through my unhappy sat,)  
This lesson, (which myself learned with expense,)  
How most it hurts that most delights the sense.   

Shame follows sin, disgrace is duly given,  
Impiety will out, never so closely done:  
Not walls can hid us from the eye of heaven,  
For shame must end what wickedness begun;  
Forth breaks reproach when we least think thereon.  
And this is ever proper unto Courts,  
That nothing can be done, but Fame reports.   

Fame doth explore what lies most secret hidden,  
Entering the closet of the Palace dweller:  
Abroad revealing what is most forbidden,  
Of truth and falsehood both an equal teller.  
'tis not a guard can serve for to expel her.  
The sword of justice cannot cut her wings,  
Nor stop her mouth from vtt'ring secret things.   

And this our stealth she could not long conceal,  
From her whom such a forfeit most concerned:  
The wronged Queen, who could so closely deal,  
That she the whole of all our practice learned,  
And watched a time when lest it was discerned,  
In absence of the King, to wreak her wrong,  
With such revenge as she desired long.   

The Labyrinth she entered by that thread,  
That served a conduct to my absent Lord,  
Left there by chance, reserved for such a deed,  
Where she surprised me whom she so abhorred.  
Enraged with madness, scarce she speaks a word,  
But flies with eager fury to my face,  
Offering me most unwomanly disgrace.   

Look how a Tigress that hath lost her whelp,  
Runs fiercely raging through the woods astray:  
And seeing herself deprived of hope or help,  
Furiously assaults what's in her way,  
To satisfy her wrath, (not for a pray;)  
So fallen she on me in outrageous wise,  
As could disdain and jealousy devise.   

And after all her vile reproaches used,  
She forced me take the poison she had brought,  
To end the life that had her so abused,  
And free her fears, and case her jealous thought.  
Not cruelty her wrath would leave unwrought,  
Not spiteful act that to revenge is common;  
(For not beast fiercer than a jealous woman.)   

Hear take (says she) thou impudent unclean,  
Base graceless strumpet, take this next your heart;  
Your lovesick heart, that overcharged hath been  
With pleasures surfeit, must be purged with art.  
This potion hath a power, that will conuart  
To naught those humours that oppress you so.  
And (Girl,) I'll see you take it ere I go.   

What stand you now amazed, retire you back?  
Tremble you (minion?) come dispatch with speed.  
There is not help, your Champion now you lack,  
And all these tears you shed will nothing steed;  
Those dainty fingers needs must do the deed.  
Take it, or I will drench you else by force,  
And trifle not, lest that I use you worse.   

Having this bloody doom from hellish breath,  
My woeful eyes on every side I cast:  
Rigour about me, in my hand my death,  
Presenting me the horror of my last;  
All hope of pity and of comfort past.  
Not means, not power, not forces to contend,  
My trembling hands must give myself my end.   

Those hands that beauty's Ministers had been,  
They must give death that me adorned of late,  
That mouth that newly gave consent to sin,  
Must now receive destruction in thereat.  
That body which my lust did violate,  
Must sacrifice itself t'appease the wrong.  
(So short is pleasure, glory lasts not long.)   

And she not sooner see I had it taken,  
But forth she rushes, (proud with victory,)  
And leaves m'alone, of all the world forsaken,  
Except of Death, which she had left with me.  
(Death and myself alone together be.)  
To whom she did her full revenge refer.  
Ah poor weak conquest both for him and her.   

Than strait my Conscience summons up my sin,  
T'appear before me, in a hideous face;  
Now doth the terror of my soul begin,  
When every corner of that hateful place  
Dectates mine error, and reveals disgrace;  
Whilst I remain oppressed in every part,  
Death in my body, horror at my heart.   

Down on my bed my loathsome self I cast,  
The bed that likewise gives in evidence  
Against my soul, and tells I was unchaste,  
Tells I was wanton, tells I followed sense.  
And therefore cast, by guilt of mine offence,  
Must here the right of heaven needs satisfy.  
And where I wanton lay, must wretched die.   

Hear I begun to wail my hard mishap,  
My sudden, strange unlooked for misery.  
Accusing them that did my youth entrap,  
To give me such a fall of infamy.  
And poor distressed ROSAMOND, (said I,)  
Is this thy glory got, to die forlorn  
In Deserts, where not ear can hear thee morn?   

Nor any eye of pity to behold  
The woeful end of thy sad tragedy;  
But that thy wrongs unseen, thy tale untold,  
Must here in secret silence buried lie.  
And with thee, thy excuse together die.  
Thy sin revealed, but thy repentance hide,  
Thy shame alive, but dead what thy death did.   

Yet breath out to these walls the breath of moan,  
Tell th'air thy plaints, sith men thou canst not tell.  
And though thou perish desolate alone,  
Tell yet thyself, what thyself knows too well:  
Utter thy grief where with thy soul doth swell.  
And let thy heart, pity thy heart's remorse,  
And be thyself the mourner and the Corpse.   

Condole thee here, clad all in black despair,  
With silence only, and a dying bed;  
Thou-babes that of late, so flourishing, so fair,  
Did glorious live, admired and honoured:  
And now from friends, from succour hither led,  
Art made a spoil to lust, to wrath, to death,  
And in disgrace, forced here to yield thy breath.   

Did Nature (o for this) deliberate,  
To show in thee the glory of her best;  
Framing thy eye the star of thy ill fate,  
And made thy face the foe to spoil the rest?  
OH Beauty, thou an enemy professed,  
To chastity and us that love thee most,  
Without thee how we're loathed, & with thee lost?   

OH you that proud with liberty and beauty,  
(And o may well be proud that you be so,)  
Glitter in Court, loved and observed of duty;  
OH that I might to you but ere I go  
Speak what I feel, to warn you by my woe,  
To keep your feet in pure clean paths of shame,  
That not enticing may divert the same.   

See'ng how against your tender weakness still,  
The strength of wit, of gold, and all is bend;  
And all th'assaults that ever might or skill,  
Can give against a chaste and clean intent:  
Ah let not greatness work you to consent.  
The spot is foul, though by a Monarch made,  
Kings cannot privilege a sin forbade.   

Lock up therefore the treasure of your love,  
Under the surest keys of fear and shame:  
And let not powers have power chaste thoughts to move  
To make a lawless entry on your fame.  
Open to those the comfort of your flame,  
Whose equal love shall march with equal pace,  
In those pure ways that lead to not disgrace.   

For see how many discontented beds,  
Our own aspiring, or our Parent's pride  
Have caused, whilst that ambition vainly weds  
Wealth and not love, honour and naught beside:  
Whilst married but to titles, we abide  
As wedded widows, wanting what we have,  
When shadows cannot give us what we crave.   

Or whilst we spend the freshest of our time,  
The sweet of youth in plotting in the air;  
Alas how often we fall, hoping to climb.  
Or whither as unprofitably fair,  
Whilst those decays which are without repair,  
Make us neglected, scorned and reproved.  
(And o what are we, if we be not loved?)   

Fasten therefore upon occasions fit,  
Lest this, or that, or like disgrace as mine,  
Do overtake your youth to ruin it,  
And cloud with infamy your beauties shine:  
Seeing how many seek to undermine  
The treasury that's vnpossest of any:  
And hard 'tis kept that is desired of many.   

And fly, (o fly,) these Bed-brokers unclean,  
(The Monsters of our sex,) that make a pray  
Of their own kind, by an unkindly mean;  
And even (like Vipers,) eating out a way  
Thorough th' womb of their own shame, accursed they  
Live by the death of Fame, the gain of sin,  
The filth of lust, uncleanness wallows in.   

OH is it not enough that we, (poor we,)  
Have weakness, beauty gold, and men our foes,  
But we must have some of ourselves to be  
Traitors unto ourselves, to join with those?  
Such as our feeble forces do disclose,  
And still betray our cause, our shame, our youth,  
To lust, to folly, and to man's untruth?   

hateful confounders both of blood and laws,  
wild Orators of shame, that plead delight:  
Ungracious Agents in a wicked cause,  
Factors for darkness, messengers of night,  
Serpents of guile, devils, that do invite  
The wanton taste of that forbidden tree, whose fruit once plucked, will show how foul we be.   

You in the habit of a grave aspect,  
(In credit by the trust of years,) can show  
The cunning ways of lust, and can direct  
The fair and wily wantoness how to go:  
Having (your loathsome selves) your youth spent so.  
And in uncleanness, ever have been fed,  
By the revenue of a wanton bed.   

By you, have been the innocent betrayed,  
The blushing fearful boldened unto sin,  
The wife made subtle, subtle made the maid,  
The husband scorned, dishonoured the kin:  
Parents disgraced, children infamous been.  
Confused our race, and falsi-fied our blood,  
Whilst father's sons, possess wrong Fathers good.   

This, and much more, I would have uttered than,  
A testament to be recorded still,  
Signed with my blood, subscribed with Conscience pen,  
To warn the fair and beautiful from ill.  
And o I wish (by th'example of my will,)  
I had not left this sin unto the fair,  
But died intestat to have had not heir.   

But now, the poison spread through all my veins,  
'Gan dispossess my living senses quite:  
And nought respecting Death, (the last of pains,)  
Placed his pale colours, (th'ensigne of his might,)  
Upon his new-got spoil before his right;  
Thence chased my soul, setting my day erenoone,  
When I least thought my joys could end so soon.   

And as conveyed t'vntimely suneralles,  
My scarce cold corpse not suffered longer stay,  
Behold, the King (by chance) returning, falls  
T'encounter with the same upon the way,  
As he repaired to see his dearest joy.  
Not thinking such a meeting could have been,  
To see his Love, and seeing been vnscene.   

judge those whom chance deprives of sweetest treasure,  
What 'tis to loose a thing we hold so dear:  
The best delight, wherein our soul takes pleasure,  
The sweet of life, that penetrates so near.  
What passions feels that heart, enforced to bear  
The deep impression of so strange a sight?  
Tongue, pen, nor art can never show aright.   

Amazed he stands, nor voice nor body steers,  
Words had not passage, tears not issue found,  
For sorrow shut up words, wrath kept in tears,  
Confused affects each other do confounded:  
Oppressed with grief, his passions had not bond.  
Striving to tell his woes, words would not come;  
For light cares speak, when mighty griefs are dumb.   

At length, extremity breaks out a way.  
Through Which th'imprisoned voice with tears attended,  
Wails out a sound that sorrows do bewray,  
With arms across, and eyes to heaven bended,  
vapouring out sighs that to the skies ascended.  
Sighs, (the poor ease calamity affords,)  
Which serve for speech when sorrow wants words.   

OH heavens (quoth he,) why do mine eyes behold  
The hateful rays of this unhappy sun?  
Why have I light to see my sins controlled,  
With blood of mine own shame thus vildly done?  
How can my sight endure to look thereon?  
Why doth not black eternal darkness hid,  
That from mine eyes, my heart cannot abide?   

What see my life, wherein my soul might joy,  
What had my days, whom trouble's still afflicted,  
But only this, to counterpoise annoy?  
This joy, this hope, which Death hath interdicted;  
This sweet, whose loss hath all distress inflicted.  
This, that did season all my sour of life,  
Vexed still at home with broils, abroad in strife.   

Vexed still at home with broils, abroad in strife,  
Dissension in my blood, jars in my bed:  
Distrust at board, suspecting still my life,  
Spending the night in horror, days in dread;  
(Such life hath Tyrants, and this life I led.)  
These miseries go masked in glittering shows,  
Which wise men see, the vulgar little knows.   

Thus as these passions do him overwhelm,  
He draws him near my body to behold it.  
And as the Vine married unto the Elm  
With strict embraces, so doth he enfold it.  
And as he in his careful arms doth hold it,  
Viewing the face that even death commends,  
On senseless lips, million of kisses spends.   

Pitiful mouth (says he) that living gavest  
The sweetest comfort that my soul could wish:  
OH be it lawful now, that dead thou havest,  
This sorrowing farewell of a dying kiss.  
And you fair eyes, containers of my bliss,  
Motives of love, born to be matched never,  
Entombed in your sweet circles sleep for ever.   

Ah how me thinks I see Death dallying seeks,  
To entertain itself in loves sweet place;  
Decayed Roses of discolloured checks,  
Do yet retain dear notes of former grace:  
And ugly Death sits fair within her face;  
Sweet remnants resting of vermilion Read,  
That Death itself doubts whether she be dead.   

Wonder of beauty, o receive these plaints,  
These Obsequys, the last that I shall make thee:  
For lo, my soul that now already faints,  
(That loved thee living, dead will not forsake thee,)  
Hastens her speedy course to overtake thee.  
I'll meet my death, and free myself thereby,  
For (ah) what can he do that cannot die?   

Yet ere I die, thus much my soul doth vow,  
Revenge shall sweeten death with ease of mind:  
And I will 'cause posterity shall know,  
How fair thou wert above all women kind.  
And afterages Monuments shall found,  
Showing thy beauty's title, not thy name,  
Rose of the world that sweetened so the same.   

This said, though more desirous yet to say,  
(For sorrow is unwilling to give over,)  
He doth repress what grief would else bewray,  
Lest he too much his passions should discover.  
And yet respect scarce bridles such a Lover.  
So far transported that he known not whither,  
For Love and Majesty devil ill together.   

Than were my funerals not long deferred,  
But done with all the rites pomp could devise,  
At Godstow, where my body was interred,  
And richly tombed in honourable wise,  
Where yet as now scarce any note descries  
Unto these times, the memory of me,  
Marble and Brass so SATURN'S 〈◊〉 be.   

For those walls which the credulous devout,  
And apt-believing ignorant did found:  
With willing zeal, that never called in doubt,  
That time their works should ever so confounded,  
Lie like confused heaps as underground.  
And what their ignorance esteemed so holy,  
The wiser ages do account as folly.   

And were it not thy favourable lines,  
Re-edified the wrack of my decays,  
And that thy accents willingly assigns,  
Some farthar date, and give me longer days,  
Few in this age had known my beauty's praise.  
But thus renewed, my fame redeems some time,  
Till other ages shall neglect thy time.   

Than when confusion in her course shall bring,  
Sad desolation on the times to come:  
When mirthless Thames shall have not Swan to sing,  
All Music silent, and the Muses dumb.  
And yet even than it must be known to some,  
That once they flourished, though not cherished so,  
And Thames had Swans as well as ever Po.   

But here an end, I may not longer stay thee,  
I must return t'attend at Stygian flood:  
Yet ere I go, this one word more I pray thee,  
Tell DELIA, now her sigh may do me good,  
And will her note the frailty of our blood.  
And if I pass unto those happy banks,  
Than she must have her praise, thy pen her thanks.   

So vanquished she, and left me to return,  
To prosecute the tenor of my woes:  
Eternal matter for my Muse to Mourn,  
But (ah) the world hath herded too much of those,  
My youth such errors must not more disclose.  
I'll hid the rest, and grieve for what hath been,  
Who made me known, must make me live unseen.   
FINIS.