Restore thy tresses to the golden ore, Yield Cytherea's son those arks of love; Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore, And to the orient do thy pearls remove; Yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white; T'Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet; Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright; To Thetis give the honour of thy feet. Let Venus have the graces she resigned, And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres; But yet restore thy fierce 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. XX 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, yet 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 learned out of those eyes. XXI If beauty thus be clouded with a frown, That pity shines no comfort to my bliss, And vapours of disdain so overgrown, That my life's light wholly indarkened 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 ruthful eyes, Vexing with untuned moan her dainty ears! If I have loved her dearer than my breath, My breath that calls the heaven to witness it!-- And still hold her most dear until my death, And if that all this cannot move one whit, Yet sure she cannot but must think apart She doth me wrong to grieve so true a heart. XXII Come Time, the anchor hold of my desire, My last resort whereto my hopes appeal; Cause once the date of her disdain t'exspire, Make her the sentence of her wrath repeal. Rob her fair brow, break in on beauty, steal Power from those eyes which pity cannot spare; Deal with those dainty cheeks, as she doth deal With this poor heart consumed with despair. This heart made now the prospective of care By loving her, the cruelst fair that lives, The cruelst fair that sees I pine for her, And never mercy to thy merit gives. Let her not still triumph over the prize Of mine affections taken by her eyes. XXIII