SONNET.

SINCE there's no help, come, let us kiss and part!
Nay, I have done; you get no more of me :
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever; cancel all our vows;
And, when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen, in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retain !
Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death;
And Innocence is closing up her eyes;

Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life, thou might'st him yet recover!

SAMUEL DANIEL.

1592.

Samuel Daniel, born at Taunton, 1562, had the felicity of being early noticed by Mary, Countess of Pembroke, the intelligent and accomplished sister of Sir Philip Sidney. His merit afterwards attracted the patronage of Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy, by whose friendship he procured a situation about the court, from which he derived such a degree of emolument as enabled him to indulge his propensity for poetical pursuits. Of the DELIA whom his Sonnets have perpetuated, very little is discovered; except, as her lover informs us, that she resided near the banks of the Avon; and that he went abroad, in the hope of obliterating the remembrance of her cruelty. She appears to have been a lady of considerable respectability, with whom the splendor of rank possessed higher fascination than the charms of poetry. The last sonnet in the present collection, was addressed to her on the author's going into Italy. It is not known at what period of his life Daniel travelled into Italy; where, in all probability, he became acquainted with the family of Florio, whose sister, Justina, he married. After enjoying an extensive reputation in the calm of retirement, he died, October 1619, without issue, at Beckington in Somersetshire, his native county. Shakspeare, it is believed, aspired to imitate the Sonnets of Daniel; and Drummond evidently selected him as his model, in this species of composition. Higher commendation than this, the admiration of Shakspeare and Drummond, no poet need be solicitous to acquire. So exquisite, indeed, is the polish displayed in many of Daniel's productions, that in this particular he is equalled by few succeeding writers, and has hardly been surpassed by any. His sentiments are natural, his language is simple and affecting, his versification is correct and melodious.

SONNETS.

FAIR is my LOVE, and cruel as she's fair ;

Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey: A modest Maid, deck'd 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, design'd a saint above! Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled 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.

IF that a loyal heart, and faith unfeign'd;
If a sweet languish, with a chaste desire;
If hunger-starven thoughts, so long restrain'd,
Fed but with smoke, and cherish'd but with fire;
And if a brow with care's characters painted,

Bewrays my love; with broken words half spoken, To her that sits in my thought's temple sainted, And lays to view my vulture-gnawn 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, the' unkindest Maid! still scorns the same:

Let this suffice, that all the world may see

The fault is her's, though mine the hurt must be !

SONNETS.

LOOK, DELIA, how we' 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 strait 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 flow'rs,
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 may'st be lov'd again.

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 the' 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 the' error of my youth they shall discover ; Suffice they shew-I liv'd, and was thy lover!

SONNETS.

UNTO the boundless ocean of thy beauty,

Runs this poor river, charg'd with streams of zeal, Returning thee the tribute of my duty;

Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal: Here, I unclasp the book of my charg'd soul, Where I have cast the' accounts of all my care; Here, I have summ'd my sighs; here, I enrol How they were spent for thee! Look what they are; Look on the dear expences of my youth,

And see how just I reckon with thine eyes; Examine well thy beauty with my truth; And cross my cares, e'er greater sums arise. Read it, sweet Maid! though it be done but slightly: Who can shew all his love, doth love but lightly.

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, confinéd 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 hand what dearest is :
My fortune's wheels, the circuit 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!