Iv

These plaintive verse, the posts of my desire, Which haste for succour to her slow regard, Bear not report of any slender fire, Forging a grief to win a fame's reward. Nor are my passions limned for outward hue, For that no colours can depaint my sorrows; Delia herself, and all the world may view Best in my face where cares have tilled deep furrows. No bays I seek to deck my mourning brow, O clear-eyed rector of the holy hill! My humble accents bear the olive bough Of intercession but to move her will. These lines I use t'unburden mine own heart; My love affects no fame nor 'steems of art.