Delia, these eyes that so admireth thine Have seen those walls the which ambition reared To check the world, how they entombed have lyen Within themselves, and on them plows have eared; Yet for all that no barb'rous hand attained The spoil of fame, deserved by virtuous men, Whose glorious actions luckily had gained Th' eternal annals of a happy pen. Why then, though Delia fade, let that not move her, Though time do spoil her of the fairest veil That ever yet mortality did cover, Which shall enstar the needle and the rail; That grace, that virtue, all that served t' in-woman, Doth her unto eternity assummon. |