DANIEL, Samuel

Delia XXXI: Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose

Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose,

The image of thy blush and summer's honour,

Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose

That full of beauty Time bestows upon her.

No sooner spreads her glory in the air

But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;

She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair;

So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine.

No April can revive thy wither'd flowers

Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;

Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours,

Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain,

But love now, whilst thou mayst be lov'd again.


Delia XLVI: Let others sing

Let others sing of knights and paladines

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.

Delia XLV: Care-charmer Sleep

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.


Sonnet XLVII: Read in My Face

Read in my face a volume of despairs,

The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe,

Drawn with my blood and printed with my cares

Wrought by her hand, that I have honor’d so.

Who, whilst I burn, she sings at my soul’s wrack,

Looking aloft from turret of her pride;

There my soul’s tyrant joys her in the sack

Of her own seat, whereof I made her guide.

There do these smokes that from affliction rise,

Serve as an incense to a cruel Dame;

A sacrifice thrice grateful to her eyes,

Because their power serve to exact the same.

Thus ruins she, to satisfy her will,

The Temple where her name was honor’d still.

Ulysses and the Siren

Siren .

Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,

Possess these shores with me:

The winds and seas are troublesome,

And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil

That travail in the deep,

And joy the day in mirth the while,

And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses.

Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were

To be attain'd with ease,

Then would I come and rest me there,

And leave such toils as these.

But here it dwells, and here must I

With danger seek it forth:

To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.

Siren .

Ulysses, O be not deceived

With that unreal name;

This honour is a thing conceived,

And rests on others' fame:

Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

The best thing of our life--our rest,

And give us up to toil.

Ulysses

. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were

No honour nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wear

The time in idle sport:

For toil doth give a better touch

To make us feel our joy,

And ease finds tediousness as much

As labour yields annoy.

Siren .

Then pleasure likewise seems the shore

Whereto tends all your toil,

Which you forgo to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversely

Find never tedious day,

And ease may have variety

As well as action may.

Ulysses.

But natures of the noblest frame

These toils and dangers please;

And they take comfort in the same

As much as you in ease;

And with the thought of actions past

Are recreated still:

When Pleasure leaves a touch at last

To show that it was ill.

Siren .

That doth Opinion only cause

That 's out of Custom bred,

Which makes us many other laws

Than ever Nature did.

No widows wail for our delights,

Our sports are without blood;

The world we see by warlike wights

Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses .

But yet the state of things require

These motions of unrest:

And these great Spirits of high desire

Seem born to turn them best:

To purge the mischiefs that increase

And all good order mar:

For oft we see a wicked peace

To be well changed for war.

Siren.

Well, well, Ulysses, then I see

I shall not have thee here:

And therefore I will come to thee,

And take my fortune there.

I must be won, that cannot win,

Yet lost were I not won;

For beauty hath created been

T' undo, or be undone.

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 hide my face, but not my sin,

For Fame finds never Tombe t'inclose 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 blest:

Caron denies me wastage with the rest.

And says my soul can never pass the River,

Till Lovers sighs on earth shall it deliver.

…..

(adaptation: Z. DE MEESTER)