The Delia Sonnets

by Samuel Daniel


Read in my face a volume of despairs,
  The wailing Iliads of my tragic woe;
  Drawn with my blood, and painted with my cares,
  Wrought by her hand that I have honoured 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 serves to exact the same.
Thus ruins she to satisfy her will,
The temple where her name was honoured still.

Next: Sonnet XLV

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