Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works
Page 20
there’s not a riuer weepes not at my tale:
I heare the ecchoes (wandring too and froe)
resound my griefe in euery hill and dale,
The beasts in field, with many a wofull groane,
The birds in ayre help to expresse my moane.
Where been those lines? the heraulds of my heart,
my plaints, my tears, my vowes, my sighes, my prayers?
ô what auayleth fayth, or what my Artes?
ô loue, ô hope, quite turn’d into despayres:
She stops her eares as Adder to the charmes,
And lets me lye and languish in my harmes.
All is agone, such is my endles griefe,
And my mishaps amended naught with moane,
I see the heauens will yeeld me no reliefe:
what helpeth care, when cure is past and gone,
And teares I see, doe me auayle no good,
But as great showres increase the rising flood.
With folded armes, thus hanging downe his head,
he gaue a groane as though his heart had broke,
Then looking pale and wan as he were dead,
he fetch’d a sigh, but neuer a word he spoke:
For now his heart wax’d cold as any stone,
Was neuer man aliue so woe begone.
With that fayre Cinthya stoups her glittering vayle,
and diues adowne into the Ocean flood,
The easterne brow which erst was wan and pale,
now in the dawning blusheth red as blood:
The whistling Larke ymounted on her wings,
To the gray morrow, her good morrow sings.
When this poore shepheard Rowland of the Rocke,
whose faynting legges his body scarse vpheld,
Each shepheard now returning to his flocke,
alone poore Rowland fled the pleasant field,
And in his Coate got to a vechie bed:
Was neuer man aliue so hard bested.
MATILDA
CONTENTS
THE VISION OF MATILDA.
TO M. DRAYTON.
MATILDA.
To the noble and vertuous Gentlewoman, worthy of all honor, Mistres Lucie Harrington, Daughter to the Honorable Gentleman, Sir IOHN HARRINGTON, Knight.
YOVR rarest vertues, (honourable Mistres LVCIE,) haue made me, amongst many other competent Iudges of your worth, both to loue and admire you: but the exceeding kinde affection (which I knowe) the House of POWLES-WORTH doe beare you, (a Family where-vnto I must confesse, I am both in loue and dutie more deuote then to any other) hath mooued mee, for a more particuler proofe of that honor which both they and I are willing to doe you, to dedicate my Poeme to your protection.
Vouchsafe therefore noble Mistres LVCIE, your selfe beeing in full measure, adorned with the like excellent gifts, both of bodie and minde: graciously to patronize MATILDA. A mirror of so rare chastitie, as neither the fayre speeches, nor rich rewards of a King, nor death in selfe, could euer remoue from her owne chast thoughts: or from that due regard which shee had of her neuer-stained honor. Your gracious and curteous acceptance of these my labours, may encourage mee heereafter, to publish some worke of greater worth, vnder your Name and protection, to whom I wish all happinesse.
Yours in all humble seruice, Michaell Drayton.
To the Honourable Gentlemen of Englande, true fauorers of Poesie.
LEARNED AND HONOURABLE GENTLEMEN, whose kind and fauourable acceptance of my late discourse of the life and death of Peirs Gaueston, hath emboldened mee, to publish this tragicall Historie of my Matilda, which otherwise, the fonde censures of the sottish and absurd ignorant had altogether discouraged me: (of those detractors I meane,) who without iudgement of reading, haue rashlie and iniuriously wronged the most rare & excellent men who haue written in this age wherein wee liue. They themselues, eyther wanting the vse of those tongues, which as the keyes of knowledge vnlock the treasurie of most rarest inuention, or els theyr dull eyes, so ouer-clowded with mistie ignorance, as neuer able to looke into celestiall secrets of diuine Poesie, thereby to discerne the right and true method of a perfect and exquisite Poeme.
And yet, such is the folly and shamelesse impudencie of some, (as wee see euery day,) which in their wanton and adultrate conceits, bring forth such vgly Monsters, as a modest and sober eye, can hardly abide to view their deformities. Then it is no meruaile though the diuine Muses, take so small delight in our Clime, finding their sweet and pleasant fields, which should be holy and sacred, defiled, and polluted, with such lothsome ordure. And although there be many, furnished with sundry sorts of good learning, yet wanting that diuine touch and heauenlie instinct which giueth life to inuention, doe basely disgrace that, wherein theyr owne experience tells them, they bee altogether ignorant. But onely to you, excellently qualified, and rare accomplish’d Gentlemen, the true heyres of the Muses, I consecrate my labours, whose wise and discreet censures, haue heeretofore made knowne to me, the true perfection of your owne honorable dispositions: & onely to you Matilda committeth her short discourse.
Michaell Drayton.
THE VISION OF MATILDA.
ME thought I saw vpon Matildas Tombe,
Her wofull ghost, which Fame did now awake,
And crau’d her passage from Earths hollow wombe,
To view this Legend, written for her sake;
No sooner shee her sacred Name had seene,
Whom her kind friend had chose to grace her story,
But wiping her chast teares from her sad eyen,
Shee seem’d to tryumph, in her double glory.
Glory shee might, that his admired Muse,
Had with such method fram’d her iust complaint:
But proude shee was, that reason made him chuse,
To patronize the same to such a Saint:
In whom her rarest vertues might be showne,
Though Poets skill should fayle to make them knowne.
H. G. Esquire.
THY learned Poeme (Friend) I will not prayse,
Nor will commend Matildas chastitie,
Shee by thy Muse, her fame from graue doth rayse,
And hie conceit, thy lines doth dignifie.
But that in this, the honour thou doost giue,
To that sweet Maide in whose vnspotted minde,
Matildas rarest vertues yet doe liue,
As two so like the world can hardly finde.
Fayre Lucie with Matilda but compare,
In all regards of perfect modestie,
And see how like in euery good they are,
And then thy choyce with iudgement ratifie.
And I who know the worth of thy fit choyce,
Approue it good, both with my pen and voyce.
Anonimos.
TEARES in your eyes, and passions in your harts,
With mournfull grace vouchsafe Matildas story:
The subiect sad, a King to act the parts
Of his owne shame, to others endlesse glory.
But such is sinne, where lawlesse lust is raigning,
Sweet to the taste, till all turnes to infection,
When count is cast, a reckoning is remaining,
Which must be payd, but not at our election.
Perrill and Greefe, the interest of Pleasure,
Spending the stock that Danger long was gayning,
Makes soule and body banckrupt of that treasure,
Which vainly spent, what helps our fond complayning?
O that my lines could so the Author grace,
As well his vertues merit prayse and place.
R. L. Esquire.
TO M. DRAYTON.
I Like thy worke, and doe allow thy wit,
And prayse thy choyce in patronizing it:
Yet more, that thou the honor doost impart,
To Lucies prayse, a Mayd of such desart.
Who for her rarest vertues doth exceede,
Nor neuer age a better wit did breede.
A blessed Impe, sprong from a noble race,
Admir’d for gyfts, and beautified with grace;
A Phenix deck, yet not with plumes of gold,
But with true Iemmes of heauens eternall mould.
Then happy man in thy Matildas fame,
Happy Matilda in rare Lucies name,
Deuise of wit, by Graces onely graced,
Adorned skill, in vertue highly placed,
Yet subiect, wit, and skill be all to fewe,
In chast Matilda, sor rare Lucies due.
W. G. Esquire.
MATILDA.
1
IF to this some sacred Muse retaine
Those choise regards by perfect vertue taught,
And in her chaste and virgin-humble vaine,
Doth kindlie cherrish one pure May den thought,
In whom my death hath but true pittie wrought,
By her I craue my life be reueald,
Which black obliuion hath too long concealed.
2
Or on the earth, if mercie may be found,
Or if remorce may touch the harts of men,
Or eyes may lend me teares to wash my wound,
Or passion be exprest by mortall pen,
Yet may I hope of some compassion then:
Three hundreth yeeres by all men ouer-past,
Now finding one to pittie mee at last.
3
You blessed Imps of heauenly chastitie,
You sacred Vestalls, Angels only glorie,
Right presidents of immortalitie,
Onely to you I consecrate my storie,
It shall suffise for mee if you be sorie:
If you alone shall deigne to grace his verse,
Which serues for odours to perfume my hearse.
4
Let your delicious heauen-distilling tears,
Soften the earth, to send mee from her wombe,
With Conquerors Lawrel crown my golden hairs,
With flowry garland beautifie my tombe,
Be you the Heralds to proclaime mee roome,
With sable Cypresse maske your louely eyes,
Mourning my death with dolefull Elegies.
5
Faire Rosamond, of all so highly graced,
Recorded in the lasting booke of Fame,
And in our Sainted Legendarie placed,
By him who striues to stellifie her name:
Yet will some Matrons say, shee was to blame;
Though all the world bewitched with his rime,
Yet all his skill cannot excuse her crime.
6
Lucrece, of whom proud Rome hath bosted long,
Lately reuiu’d to liue another age,
And here arriu’d to tell of Tarquins wrong,
Her chast deniall, and the Tyrants rage,
Acting her passions on our stately stage.
Shee is remembred, all forgetting mee,
Yet I, as faire and chast as ere was shee.
7
Shores wife is in her wanton humor sooth’d,
And modern Poets, still applaud her praise,
Our famous Elstreds wrinckled brows are smooth’d
Call’d from her graue to see these latter dayes,
And happy’s hee, their glory high’st can raise.
Thus looser wantons still are praisd of many,
Vice oft findes friends, but vertue seldom any.
8
O fairest Charities, Ioues deere delight,
O lend me now one heauen-inchaunting lay,
And you rare Nymphs which please Apollos sight,
Bring spreading Palme, and neuer-dying Bay,
With Oliue branches strew the pleasant way:
And with you viols sound one pleasing straine,
To ayde his Muse, and raise his humble vaine.
9
And thou ô BETA, soueraigne of his thought,
Englands Diana, let him thinke on thee,
By thy perfections let his Muse be taught,
And in his breast so deepe imprinted be,
That he may write of sacred chastitie:
Though not like Collin in thy Britomart,
Yet loues asmuch, although he wants his Art.
10
O my dread Soueraigne, rare and princly Maid,
From whose pure eyes the world deriues her light,
In Angels roabs with maiestie arayd,
In whom true vertue is defin’d aright;
O let these lines be gracious in thy sight,
In whom alone, as in a perfect glas,
All may discerne how chast Matilda was.
11
To brag of birth, or noblesse, were but vaine,
Although I might compare me with the best;
To challenge that our Auncestors did gaine,
A royall minde such follie doth detest,
Which I omit, and heere set downe my rest:
Of vertuous life I meane to boast alone,
Our birth is theirs, our vertues are our owne.
12
A shame to fetch our long discent from Kings,
And from great Ioue deriue our pedigree,
The braue atchiuements of a hundred things,
Breathing vaine boasts, the world to terrifie,
If we our selues doe blot with infamie,
And staine that blood & honor which is theirs,
Men cannot leaue their vertues to their heyrs.
13
The Heauen became a Midwife at my birth,
A kinde Lucina, gentlie helping Nature:
Some sacred power then present on the earth,
Fore-telling rare perfection in a creature,
As all men iudg’d by so diuine a feature:
Yet as my beautie seem’d to rauish all,
Vertue made beautie more angelicall.
14
Vpon my brow, sate Honor in her pride,
Tables containing heauens diuinest law,
Whose snowie margent quoted on each side,
With such delights as all mens harts could draw,
My thoughts (as Tutors) kept mine eyes in awe,
Fro their rare sun-beams darting forth such raies,
As wel ye work might shew the Arts-mans praise.
15
These Cherubins, the Tree of life doe keepe,
These Dragons, watch the faire Hesperian fruite,
These fiery Serpents, guarde the golden Sheepe,
These fixed starrs, their rayes like lightning shute,
At whose approch, the wise were striken mute.
These eyes, wc only could true vertues measure,
Ordain’d by Nature to preserue her treasure.
16
My words were gracefull, pleasing to the wise,
My speech retayning modest decencie,
Not fondlie vaine, nor foolishly precise,
But sweetly tun’d, with such a simphony,
Moouing all hearers with the harmonie,
Gracing my tale with such an Emphasis,
As neuer musick could delight like this.
17
My face the sunne, adorning beauties sky,
The booke where heauen her wonders did enrole,
A stately Pharos to each wandring eye,
And like a Syren could enchaunt the soule,
Which had the power the proudest to controle.
To whom this gift my Maker had assigned,
That there all eyes like Southsayers, diuined.
18
Natures faire Ensigne royallie displai’d,
Map of Elisium, Eden without night,
Ermins, wherein rich Phoebus is arrai’d,
Right prospectiue, reflecting heauenlie light,
Hart-wounding arrow, pearcing with the sight.
Bright mornings lustre, Ioues high exaltation,
Load-starre of loue, rare Card of admiration.
19
True type of honor, fine delicious varry,
The richest coate that euer beauty
bare,
Pure colours, which the heauens doe onely carry,
O vncouth blazon, so exceeding rare,
O curious lymming, passing all compare,
First at my birth assigned vnto mee,
By that great King of heauenly Heraldry.
20
From hence my praise began to proue her wing,
Which to the heauen could carry vp my fame,
Of all my glory now began the spring,
Through euery Coast this still enlarg’d my name,
From hence the cause of all my sorrowes came:
Thus to this Hydra are we subiect still,
Who dares to speake, not caring good or ill.
21
This iealous Monster hath a thousand eyes,
Her ayrie bodie hath as many wings,
Now on the earth, then vp to heauen shee flies,
And here, and there, with euery wind she flings,
From euerie Coast her rumors forth she brings;
Nothing so secret, but to her appeareth,
And apt to credit euery thing shee heareth.
22
Foule blabbing tel-tale, secrets soone bewrayer,
Thou ayre-bred Eccho, whisperer of lyes:
Shril-sounding trumpet, Truths vnkind betrayer,
False larum-bel, awaking dead mens eyes,
Vncertaine rumor, wandring in the skyes:
Fond pratling Parrat, telling all thou hearest,
Ost furthest of when as thou shold’st be neerest.
23
The Princes eares are open to report,
Ther’s skill in blazing beautie to a King;
To censure, is the subiect of the Court,
Fro thence Fame carries, thether Fame doth bring,
There, to each word a thousand Ecchos ring:
A Lottery, where most loose, but few do win,
Few loue Religion, manie follow sin.
24
Loe, here at first my beautie plaid her prize,
Here where my vertues seldom prized be;
Yet that which most seem’d wondred of the wise,
Confin’d by vertue, cleerlie made mee see
What dangers were attending still on mee:
Which most desir’d, for why esteem’d most rare,
Guarded I kept with most especiall care.
25
Thys, whole possest the thoughts of princly Iohn,
This, on his hart-strings Angels musick made,
This, was the subiect which he wrought vpon,
That deepe impression which could neuer fade,
Reason which might sufficiently perswade,