Delia XLV: Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night
XLV
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-adventur'd youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease dreams, th' imagery of our 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.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet XVII: Why Should I Sing in Verse
Why should I sing in verse, why should I frame
These sad neglected notes for her dear sake?
Why should I offer up onto 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 endeavor,
Such honor unto cruelty to give?
If her defects have purchas'd her this fame,
What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love?
If this her worst, how should her best enflame?
What passions would her milder favors move?
Favors (I think) would sense quite overcome,
And that makes happy Lovers ever dumb.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet XXI: If Beauty Thus Be Clouded
If Beauty thus be clouded with a frown,
That pity shines no comfort to my bliss,
And vapors of disdain so overfrown,
That my life's light thus wholy darken'd is,
Why should I more molest the world with cries,
The air with sighs, the earth below with tears?
Since I live hateful to those ruthless eyes,
Vexing with untun'd moan her dainty ears;
If I have lov'd her dearer than my breath,
My breath that calls the heav'ns 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 lov'd so long.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet XLIX: How Long
How long shall I in mine affliction mourn,
A burden to myself, distress'd in mind?
When shall my interdicted hopes return
From out despair wherein they live confin'd?
When shall her troubled brow charg'd with disdain
Reveal the treasure which her smiles impart?
When shall my faith the happiness attain
To break the ice that hath congeal'd 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 deserv'd her love.
I know she cannot but must needs confess it,
Yet deigns not with one simple sign t'express it.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet XLV: Delia, These Eyes
Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine
Have seen those walls the which ambition rear'd
To check the world, how they entomb'd have lyen
Within themselves, and on them plows have ear'd.
Yet for all that no barbarous hand attain'd
The spoil of fame deserv'd by virtuous men,
Whose glorious actions luckily had gain'd
Th'eternal Annals of a happier pen.
Why then, though Delia fade, let that not move her,
Though Time do spoil her of the fairest veil
That ever yet mortality did cover,
Which shall enstar the needle and the trail.
That grace, that virtue all that serv'd t' enwoman
Doth her unto eternity assummon.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet XX: What It Is to Breathe
What it is to breathe and live without life;
How to be pale with anguish, red with fear;
T'have peace abroad, and nought within but strife;
Wish to be present, and yet shun t'appear;
How to be bold far off, and bashful near;
How to think much, and have no words to speak;
To crave redress, yet hold affliction dear;
To have affection strong, a body weak;
Never to find, and evermore to seek;
And seek that which I dare not hope to find;
T'affect this life, and yet this life disleek;
Grateful t'another, to myself unkind:
This cruel knowledge of these contraries,
Delia, my heart hath learn'd out of those eyes.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet XXIII: Time, Cruel Time
Time, cruel Time, come and subdue that brow
Which conquers all but thee, and thee, too, stays
As if she were exempt from scythe or bow,
From love or years unsubject to decays.
Or art thou grown in league with those fair eyes
That they may help thee to consume our days?
Or dost thou spare her for her cruelties,
Being merciless like thee that no man weighs?
And yet thou seest thy power she disobeys,
Cares not for thee, but lets thee waste in vain,
And prodigal of hours and years betrays
Beauty and youth t'opinion and disdain.
Yet spare her, Time, let her exempted be,
She may become more kind to thee or me.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet IX: If This Be Love
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 memorials of my love's despair.
If this be love, to war against my soul,
Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve me,
The never-resting stone of care to roll,
Still to complain my griefs, and none relieve me.
If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,
Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart,
My pleasures horror, music tragic notes,
Tears in my eyes, and sorrow at my heart.
If this be love, to live a living death,
O then love I and draw this weary breath.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet LV: Let Others Sing
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.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Sonnet X: O Then I Love
O then I love 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.
O thou that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter-loving Goddess, worldly pleasures' Queen,
Intenerate 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 music their glory to the world impart.
Once let her know, sh'hath done enough to prove me,
And let her pity if she cannot love me.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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