joy

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;

When first I ended, then I first began,
The more I travell'd, further from my rest,
Where most I lost, there most of all I wan,
Pined with hunger rising from a feast.
Methinks I fly, yet want I legs to go,
Wise in conceit, in act a very sot,
Ravish'd with joy amid a hell of woe;
What most I seem, that surest am I not.
I build my hopes a world above the sky,
Yet with the mole I creep into the earth;
In plenty I am starv'd with penury,
And yet I surfeit in the greatest dearth.

Lo, here the impost of a faith unfeigning
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 send 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, perish'd at their birth,

Define my weal, and tell the joys of Heav'n;
Express my woes, and show the pains of Hell;
Declare what fate unlucky stars have giv'n,
And ask a world upon my life to dwell;
Make known the faith that Fortune could not move;
Compare myu worth with others' base desert;
Let virtue be the touchstone of my love,
So may the heav'ns read wonders in my heart;
Behold the clouds which have eclips'd my sun,
And view the crosses which my course do let;
Tell me if ever since the world begun

Like as the lute that joys or else dislikes
As in his art that plays upon the same,
So sounds my Muse according as she strikes
On my heart strings high tun'd unto her fame.
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound
Which here I yield in lamentable wise,
A wailing descant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports give honor to her eyes.
Else harsh my style, untunable my Muse,
Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name;
If any pleasing relish here I use,

Drawn by th'attractive virtue of her eyes,
My touch'd heart turns it to that happy coast;
My joyful North, where all my fortune lies,
The level of my hopes desired most.
There where my Delia , fairer than the Sun,
Deckt with her youth whereon the world smileth,
Joys in that honor which her beauty won,
Th'eternal volume which her fame compileth.
Flourish, fair Albion, glory of the North,
Neptune's darling held between his arms,
Divided from the world as better worth,
Kept for himself, defended from all harms.

Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe,
Duly to count the sum of all my cares,
I find my griefs innumerable grow,
The reckonings rise to millions of despairs;
And thus dividing of my fatal hours,
The payments of my love I read and cross,
Subtracting, set my sweets unto my sours,
My joy's arrearage leads me to my loss;
And thus mine eye's a debtor to thine eye,
Which by extortion gaineth all their looks;
My heart hath paid such grievous usury
That all their wealth lies in thy beauty's books,

Unequalled Virgin, the second ornament
Of the human race, whose dignity has not diminished
Her humility, nor has humility lessened her generosity of heart,
O rare Mother of her own Creator!

You have crushed the head of the serpent whose venom
Has poisoned the entire world.
You assumed your place in Heaven above the angels' choir
And there, glorified, you partake of eternal joy.

For our souls you are like a moon
Which reflects the rays of eternal
Charity, as our grievous sinfulness

High on a rock, coaeval with the skies,
A Temple stands, rear'd by immortal pow'rs
To Chastity divine! ambrosial flow'rs
Twining round icicles, in columns rise,
Mingling with pendent gems of orient dyes!
Piercing the air, a golden crescent tow'rs,
Veil'd by transparent clouds; while smiling hours
Shake from their varying wings--celestial joys!
The steps of spotless marble, scatter'd o'er
With deathless roses arm'd with many a thorn,
Lead to the altar. On the frozen floor,
Studded with tear-drops petrified by scorn,

Favour'd by Heav'n are those, ordain'd to taste
The bliss supreme that kindles fancy's fire;
Whose magic fingers sweep the muses' lyre,
In varying cadence, eloquently chaste!
Well may the mind, with tuneful numbers grac'd,
To Fame's immortal attributes aspire,
Above the treach'rous spells of low desire,
That wound the sense, by vulgar joys debas'd.
For thou, blest POESY! with godlike pow'rs
To calm the miseries of man wert giv'n;
When passion rends, and hopeless love devours,
By mem'ry goaded, and by frenzy driv'n,