Mine vtter ruine, and my fames confusion.
Like as Adonis wounded with the Bore,
From whose fresh hurt the life-warme blood doth spin,
Now lyeth wallowing in his purple gore,
Stayning his faire and Alablaster skin:
My headles bodie in the blood is left,
Now lying breathles, and of life bereft.
my Muse, put on thy Eagles wings,
some comfort to my tired ghost,
with Apollos dolefull-tuned strings,
help at need, for now I need thee most.
Sorrow posses my hart, mine eyes, myne ears,
My breath consume to sighs, my braine to tears.
My soule now in the heauens eternall glass,
Beholds the scarrs and botches of her sin,
How filthy, vglie, and deformd shee was,
The lothsome dunghill that shee wallowed in.
Her pure Creator sitting in his glory,
With eyes of iustice to peruse her storie.
Like as a stagg at bay amongst the hounds,
The bloodie Mott still sounding in his ears,
Feeling his breath diminish by his wounds,
Poures downe his gummy life-preseruing tears;
Euen thus my soule, now bayted by my sin,
Consuming shewes the sorrow shee is in.
Thus comfortles, forsaken and alone,
All worldlie things vnstable, and vnsure,
By true contrition flyes to him alone,
In whose compare, the heauens are most impure.
By whose iust doome, to blessed soules reuealed,
Shee gets her pasport to Elisia sealed.
And by repentance, finds a place of rest,
Where passing to the faire Elisian plaine,
Shee is aloud her roome amongst the blest,
In those Ambrosian shadowes to remaine.
Till summond thus by Fame, shee is procur’d,
To tell my life that hath been thus obscur’d.
This monster now, this many-headed beast,
The people, more vnconstant then the wind,
Who in my life, my life did so detest,
Now in my death, are of another mind:
And with the fountains from their teareful eyes,
Doe honor to my latest obsequies.
Star-holding heauen hath shut vp all her light,
Nature become a stepdam to her owne,
The mantled trouch-man of the Rauen-hued night,
In mournfull Sables clad the Horizon.
The sky-borne Planets seeming to conspire,
Against the ayre, the water, earth, and fire.
Pearle-paued Auon, in her streamfull course,
With heauy murmure floting on the stones,
Mou’d with lament to pitty and remorse,
Attempering sad musick to my moans,
Tuning her billowes to Zephyrus breath,
In watry language doth bewaile my death.
Oke-shadowed Arden, fild with bellowing cries,
Resounding through her holts and hollow grounds,
To which the Eccho euer-more replies,
And to the fields sends forth her hideous sounds,
And in her Siluan rude vntuned songs,
Makes byrds, and beasts, for to express my wrongs.
The heauen-dyed flowers in this happy clyme,
Mantling the Medowes in their Summers pride,
As in the wofull frostie winter time,
Drouping with faintnes, hold their heads aside.
The boystrous storms, dispoile the greenest greues,
Stripping the Trees stark naked of their leaues.
Death clad in liueries of my louely cheeks,
Layd in those beds of Lillyes and of Roses,
Amaz’d with meruaile, heere for wonders seeks,
Where he alone a Paradice supposes,
Grew malcontent, and with himselfe at strife,
Not knowing now if hee were death or life.
And shutting vp the casements of those lyghts,
Which like two sunns, so sweetly went to rest,
In those faire globes he saw those heauenly sights,
In which alone he thought him onely blest.
Cursing himselfe, who had depriued breath,
From that which thus could giue a life in death.
With palenes touching that fayre rubied lip,
Now waxing purple, like Adonis flower,
Where Iuory walls those rocks of Curral keep,
From whence did flow that Nectar-streaming shower,
There earth-pale Death refresht his tired limms,
Where Cupid bath’d hym in those Christall brimms.
And entring now into that house of glory,
That Temple with sweet Odors long perfumed,
Where nature had ingraued many a story,
In Letters, which by death were not consumed.
Accursed now, his crueltie he curst,
That Fame should liue, when he had done hys worst.
Now when the King had notice of my death,
And that hee saw his purpose thus preuented,
In greeuous sighes hee now consumes his breath,
And into tears his very eyes relented:
Cursing that vile and mercy-wanting age,
And breakes into this passion in his rage.
O heauens (quoth hee) lock vp the liuing day,
Cease sunn to lend the world thy glorious light,
Starrs, flye your course, and wander all astray,
Moone, lend no more thy siluer shine by night.
Heauens, starrs, Sunn, Moone, conioyne you all in one,
Reuenge the death of my sweet Gaueston.
Earth, be thou helples in thy creaturs berth,
Sea, break thou forth from thy immured bound,
Ayre, with thy vapors poyson thou the earth,
Wind, break thy Caue, and all the world confound.
Earth, sea, ayre, wind, conioyne you all in one,
Bewaile the death of my sweet Gaueston.
You sauage beasts, that haunt the way-less woods,
You Birds delighted in your Siluan sound,
You scaly Fish, that swim in pleasant floods,
You hartless Wormes that creep vpon the ground,
Beasts, birds, fish, wormes, each in your kind alone,
Reuenge the death of my sweet Gaueston.
Faire Medowes, be you withered in the prime,
Sun-burnt and bare, be all the goodly Mountains,
Groues, be you leaueless in the Summer time,
Pitchy and black be all the Christall Fountains:
All things on earth, each in your kind alone,
Reuenge the death of my sweet Gaueston.
You damned Furies, break your Stigian Cell,
You wandring spirits, in water, earth, and ayre,
Lead-boyling ghosts, that liue in lowest hell,
Gods, diuels, men, vnto mine ayde repayre,
Come all at once, conioyne you all in one,
Reuenge the death of my sweet Gaueston.
Eyes, neuer sleep, vntill you see reuenge,
Head, neuer rest, vntill thou plot reuenge,
Hart, neuer think, but tending to reuenge,
Hands, neuer act, but acting deep reuenge.
Iust-dooming heauens, reuenge mee from aboue,
That men vnborne may wonder at my loue.
You peerles Poets of ensuing times,
Chanting Heroique Angel-tuned notes,
Or humble Pastors Nectar-filled lines,
Driuing your flocks with musick to their coats,
Let your hie-flying Muses still bemoane,
The wofull end of my sweet Gaueston.
My earth-pale body now enbalmd with tears,
To famous Oxford solemnly conuaid,
There buried by the ceremonious Friers,
Where for my soule was many a Trentall said.
With all those r
ites my obsequies behoued,
Whose blind deuotion, time and truth reproued.
But ere two yeeres were out and fully dated,
This gracious King who still my fame respected,
My wasted bones to Langley thence translated,
And ouer mee a stately Tombe erected.
Which world-deuouring Time, hath now out-worne,
As but for Letters, were my name forlorne.
My ghost now hence to Ankor shall repayre,
Where once the same appeared vnto thee:
And vnto chaste Idea tell my care,
A sacrifice both for thy selfe and mee.
In whose sweet bosome all the Muses rest,
In whose aspect our Clyme is onely blest.
Thus hauing told my drery dolefull tale,
My time expir’d, I now returne againe,
Where Carons Barge hoyst with a merrie gale,
Shall land mee on the faire Elisian plaine:
Where, on the Trees of neuer dying fame,
There will I carue Ideas sacred name.
And thou sweet Dorus, whose sole Phoenix Muse,
With Pegase wings doth mount vnto the sky,
Whose lines the gods are fittest to peruse.
My louelie Dorus, lend thine humble eye,
To my harsh stile, (deer friend) at my request,
In whose conceit my verse is onely blest.
My deer Maecenas, lend thine eyes awhile,
From Meredian’s sun-bred stately straine:
And from thy rare and lofty flying stile,
Looke downe into my low and humble vaine:
On this same babe my Muse hath now brought forth,
Till shee present thee with some lines of worth.
FINIS.
DIUERS haue been the opinions, of the byrth and first rysing of Gaueston, (amongst the Writers of these latter times:) some omitting things worthy of memory, some inferring things without probabilitie, disagreeing in many particulars, and cauelling in the circumstances of his sundry banishments; which hath bred some doubt amongst those who haue but slightly run ouer the History of his fortune, seeing euery man roue by his owne ayme in this confusion of opinions: Although most of the concluding in generall, of his exceeding credite with the King, of the maner of his death, and of the pompe wherin he lyued. Except some of those Writers who lyued in the tyme of Edward the second, wherin he onely florisht, or immediatly after, in the golden raigne of Edward the third, when as yet his memory was fresh in euery mans mouth: whose authorities (in myne opinion) can hardlie be reproued of any, the same beeing within the compasse of possibility, and the Authors names extant, auouching what they haue written. On whom I onely relyed in the plot of my History; hauing recourse to some especiall collections, gathered by the industrious labours of Iohn Stow, a diligent Chronigrapher of our time. A man very honest, exceeding painfull, and ritch in the antiquities of this Ile: yet omitting some small things of no moment, feating to make his Tragedy more troublesome, amongst so many currants as haue fallen out in the same: framing my selfe to fashion a body of a hystorie, without maime or deformitie. Which if the same be accepted thankfully, as I offer it willingly, in contenting you, I onely satisfie my selfe.
M. D.
IDEA’S MIRROR
CONTENTS
To the deere Chyld of the Muses, and his euer kind Mecaenas, Ma. Anthony Cooke, Esquire.
Amour 1.
Amour 2.
Amour 3.
Amour 4.
Amour 5.
Amour 6.
Amour 7.
Amour 8.
Amour 9.
Amour 10.
Amour 11.
Amour 12.
Amour 13.
Amour 14.
Amour 15.
Amour 16.
Amour 17.
Amour 18.
Amour 19.
Amour 20.
Amour 21.
Amour 22.
Amour 23
Amour 24.
Amour 25.
Amour 26.
Amour 27
Amour 28.
Amour 29.
Amour 30.
Amour 31.
Amour 32.
Amour 33.
Amour 34.
Amour 35.
Amour 36.
Amour 37.
Amour 38.
Amour 39.
Amour 40.
Amour 41.
Amour 42
Amour 43.
Amour 44.
Amour 45
Amour 46.
Amour 47.
Amour 48.
Amour 49.
Amour 50.
Amour 51.
THE EIGHTH EGLOG.
THE NINTH EGLOG.
To the deere Chyld of the Muses, and his euer kind Mecaenas, Ma. Anthony Cooke, Esquire.
VOUCHSAFE to grace these rude vnpolish’d rymes,
Which long (deer friend) haue slept in sable night,
And come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brooke the purenes of the light.
But sith you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name theyr gracious liuery.
Yet these mine owne, I wrong not other men,
Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,
Nor filch from Portes nor from Petrarchs pen,
A fault too common in thys latter tyme.
Diuine Syr Phillip, I auouch thy writ,
I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.
Yours deuoted, M. Drayton.
ANKOR tryumph, vpon whose blessed shore,
The sacred Muses solemnize thy name:
Where the Arcadian Swaines with rytes adore
Pandoras poesy, and her liuing fame.
Where first this iolly Sheepheard gan rehearse,
That heauenly worth, vpon his Oaten reede,
Of earths great Queene: in Nectar-dewed verse,
Which none so wise that rightly can areede.
Nowe in conceite of his ambitious loue,
He mounts his thoughts vnto the highest gate,
Straynd with some sacred spirit from aboue,
Bewraies his loue, his fayth, his life, his fate:
In this his myrror of Ideas praise,
On whom his thoughts, and fortunes all attend,
Tunes all his Ditties, and his Roundelaies,
How loue begun, how loue shal neuer end.
No wonder though his Muse then soare so hie,
Whose subiect is the Queene of Poesie.
Gorbo il fidele.
Amour 1.
READE heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo,
The drery abstracts of my endles cares:
With my liues sorow enterlyned so,
Smok’d with my sighes, and blotted with my teares.
The sad memorials of my miseries,
Pend in the griefe of myne afflicted ghost:
My liues complaint in doleful Elegies,
With so pure loue as tyme could neuer boast.
Receaue the incense which I offer heere,
By my strong fayth ascending to thy fame,
My zeale, my hope, my vowes, my praise, my prayer,
My soules oblations to thy sacred name.
Which name my Muse to highest heauen shal raise,
By chast desire, true loue, and vertues praise.
Amour 2.
My fayre, if thou wilt register my loue,
More then worlds volumes shall thereof arise,
Preserue my teares, and thou thy selfe shalt proue
A second flood downe rayning from mine eyes.
Note but my sighes, and thine eyes shal behold,
The Sun-beames smothered with immortall smoke:
And if by thee my prayers may be enrold,
They heauen and earth to pitty shall prouoke.
Looke thou into my breast, and thou shalt see
Chaste holy vowes for my soules sacrifice:
That soule (sweet Maide) which so hath honored thee,
Erecting Trophies to thy sacred eyes.
Those eyes to my hart shining euer bright,
When darknes hath obscur’d each other light.
Amour 3.
My thoughts bred vp with Eagle-birds of loue,
And for their vertues I desierd to know,
Vpon the nest I set them, forth to proue,
If they were of the Eagles kinde or no.
But they no sooner saw my Sunne appeare,
But on her rayes with gazing eyes they stood,
Which proou’d my birds delighted in the ayre,
And that they came of this rare kinglie brood.
But now their plumes full sumd with sweet desire,
To shew their kinde, began to clime the skies:
Doe what I could my Eaglets would aspire,
Straight mounting vp to thy celestiall eyes.
And thus (my faire) my thoughts away be flowne,
And from my breast into thine eyes be gone.
Amour 4.
My faire, had I not erst adornd my Lute,
With those sweet strings stolne fro¯ thy golden hayre,
Vnto the world had all my ioyes been mute,
Nor had I learn’d to descant on my faire.
Had not mine eye seene thy Celestiall eye,
Nor my hart knowne the power of thy name,
My soule had ne’r felt thy Diuinitie,
Nor my Muse been the trumpet of thy fame.
But thy diuine perfections by their skill,
This miracle on my poore Muse haue tried:
And by inspiring, glorifide my quill,
And in my verse thy selfe art deified.
Thus from thy selfe the cause is thus deriued,
That by thy fame all fame shall be suruiued.
Amour 5.
Since holy Vestall lawes haue been neglected,
The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite:
No Virgine once attending on that light,
Nor yet those heauenly secrets once respected.
‘Till thou alone to pay the heauens their dutie,
Within the Temple of thy sacred name,
With thine eyes kindling that Celestial flame,
By those reflecting Sun-beames of thy beautie.
Here Chastity that Vestall most diuine,
Attends that Lampe with eye which neuer sleepeth,
The volumes of Religions lawes shee keepeth,
Making thy breast that sacred reliques shryne,
Where blessed Angels singing day and night,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 16