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the son of a music master, was born near Taunton, in the year 1562. He was early patronized by the admirable Countess of Pembroke, "Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother," at whose expense he was entered a Commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, in 1579. He was afterwards tutor to the Lady Anne Clifford, and the successor of Spenser as Poet Laureat to Queen Elizabeth. After her death he was appointed Groom of the Chamber to Ann, Queen of James the First. Towards the close of his life he retired to a farm, but whether in Somersetshire or Wiltshire, is disputed. He died in October, 1619, and a tablet is said to have been erected to his memory from gratitude by his former pupil, the Lady Anne Clifford. Many of his sonnets celebrate the object of his first attachment under the name of Delia. The lady, however, was not to be won; rank was preferred by her before love and genius, and Daniel seeing this, resolved to travel. He remained abroad several years, and on his return had sufficiently overcome his attachment to marry Giustina Florio, of a family of Waldenses, who had fled from the iniquitous persecution of that unhappy people. With her he appears to have been perfectly happy, and to have forgotten his former repulse.

TO DELIA.

LET others sing of Knights and Palladines,
In agèd 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 arcs, 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 in them appear,

Suffice, they shew I lived and loved thee dear.

BEAUTY, Sweet love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green,
Cheers for a time, but still the sun doth shew,

And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,

Yet, which at length thou must be forced to lose. When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, Shall bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, When time hath made a passport for thy ears.

The date of age, the calends of our deathBut, ah! no more—this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old.

RESTORE thy tresses to the golden ore,
Yield Citherea's son those arkes of love;
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore,
And to th' orient do thy pearls remove.
Yield thy hand's pride unto th' ivory white,
Th' 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 th' spheres:

But yet restore thy proud 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.

TO SLEEP.

CARE-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,

Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With darke forgetting of my care return. And let the day be time enough to mourn

The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth :
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease dreams, th' images of day desires,

To model forth the passions of the morrow:
Never let rising sun approve you liers,
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.

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 no 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 hart's dispair, Which still is chased, while I have any breath, By mine own thoughts, set on me by my fair; My thoughts, like hounds, pursue to my death. Those that I fostered of mine own accord Are made by her to murder thus their lord.

I MUST not grieve my love, whose eyes

would read

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. And sport sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither; And where the sweetest blossom 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 must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one.

AND yet I cannot reprehend the flight,
Or blame the attempt presuming so to soar;
The mounting venture for a high delight

Did make the honour of the fall the more!
For who gets wealth that puts not from the shore?
Danger hath honour, great designs their fame,
Glory doth follow, courage goes before;

And though th' event oft answers not the same,
Suffice that high attempts have never shame.
The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,
Lives without honour, dies without a name,
And in eternal darkness ever sleeps:

And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot,
To have attempted, though attained thee not.

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 galls, her favours honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honour: Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and 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 reconcilèd friends within her brow: And had she Pity to conjoin with those; Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

My spotless Love hovers 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.

My ambitious thoughts confinèd in her face,

Affect no honour, but what she can give :
My hopes do rest in limits of her grace,
I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.
For she that can my heart imparadise,
Holds in her fairest hands what dearest is;
My fortune's wheels the circles of her eyes,
Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.

All my life's sweet consists in her alone:

So much I love the most unloving one.

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