Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  My Conscience cald, yet cleerly doth excuse me.

  And those pure thoughts, enshrined in my brest,

  By verdict quit me, being on the Quest.

  66

  And Wisedom now fore-warned me of treason,

  That in the Court, I liu’d a Lyons pray,

  My tender youth in this contagious season,

  Still fear’d infection, following day by day:

  My Barck vnsafe on this tempestious Sea.

  My Chastity in danger euery hower,

  No succour neer to shroud me from the shower.

  67

  What should I say? nay what should saying do?

  Could wit say more then euer wit hath said?

  My hopes say yes, but Fortune still sayes no,

  And thus my state is by the starres betrai’d,

  Such waight the heauens vpon my birth haue laid,

  Yet Vertue neuer her own Vertue looseth,

  Thogh gainst her course ye that heaue it selfe opposeth.

  68

  With Resolution, hap what might be-tide,

  I leaue the Court, the Spring of all my woe.

  That Court, which gloried in my Beauties pride,

  That Beauty, which my Fortune made my foe,

  To Baynards-Castell secretly I goe.

  Where, with his trayne, my noble Father lay,

  Whose gracious counsell was my onely stay.

  69

  There, might my thoughts keepe holy-day a while,

  And sing a farewell to my sorrowes past,

  With all delights I might the time beguile,

  Attayn’d my wished libertie at last,

  No fearfull vision made me now agast.

  But like a Bird escapt her Keepers charge,

  Glides throgh ye aire with wings display’d at large.

  70

  And hoping health thus cured of these qualmes,

  My hart in this fayre harbour rides at ease,

  The tempest past, expecting quiet calmes,

  My Shyp thus floting on these blisfull Seas,

  A sudden storme my Ankor-hold doth raise:

  And from the shore doth hoyse me to the maine,

  Where I (pore soule) my shipwrack must sustaine.

  71

  And loe, the Autumne of my ioyes approach,

  Whilst yet my spring began so faire to flourish,

  Black way-ward Winter, sets her storms abroch,

  And kils the sap which all my hopes did nourish.

  Fortune once kind, grows crabbed now & currish.

  In my straight path, she layes a mighty beame.

  And in my course, she thwarths me with ye streame.

  72

  The King who saw his loue vnkindly crost,

  And by effect the cause had fully found,

  Since he the haruest of his hope had lost,

  Now on the reuenge his deepest thoughts doth ground

  Desperate to kill, receiuing his deaths wound.

  In reasons bonds striues but in vaine to hold,

  Head-strong desire, too proud to be controld.

  73

  Like the braue Courser strugling with the raines,

  His foming mouth controld with Canons check,

  With losty bounds his skilfull Ryder straines,

  Scorning to yeeld his stately crested neck:

  Nor of the bloody pearcing spurres doth reck,

  The King now warmed in this glorious fire,

  Thus roughly plungeth in his vaine desire.

  74

  Mischiefe is light, and mounteth ouer-head,

  Rage is of fire which naturally ascends,

  Rashnes of feathers, counsell trapd with lead,

  And where the one begins, the other ends,

  This all extends, the other all intends.

  His will too free to force him vnto ill,

  His wit too slow to countercheck his will.

  75

  Hence-forth deuising to disperse the Cloude.

  Which euer hung betwixt him and the light:

  His loue not currant, nor to be allow’d,

  Whilst thus my Father held me in his sight,

  Some-thing amisle, his Watch went neuer right.

  Of force he must this Sentinell remoue,

  If he in time would hope to win my loue.

  76

  In going on, goe back, forward, retire,

  Flie that which followes, follow but to flie,

  Keepe thee far off, now thou approchest nier,

  Stoop to the ground whe mischiefe mounts on hie,

  Fore-sight far off doth daunger soon espie.

  Ah loue, if wounded once with thine own Dart,

  Thou hate, hate loue, transformd by your own art

  77

  Ten thousand mischiefes now he sets abroch,

  Treasons, inuasions, ciuill mutinie,

  Black ignominie, slaunderous reproch,

  Rebellion, out-rage, vile conspiracie,

  Opening the intralls of all villanie.

  Causing this Lord, thereof to be accused,

  By Traytors, such as he with gyfts abused.

  78

  Foule Enuie thou, the partiall Iudge of right,

  Sonne of Deceit, borne of that harlot Hate,

  Nursed in hell, a vile and vglie sprite,

  Feeding on Slaunder, cherrish’d with Debate;

  Neuer contented with thine owne estate;

  Deeming alike the wicked and the good,

  Whose words be gal, whose actions end in blood

  79

  His seruice done to this vngratefull King,

  His worth, his valure, his gentilitie:

  What good so euer might from vertue spring,

  Or could proceede from true Nobilitie,

  All buried now in darke obscuritie.

  His vertuous life, in doubtfull question brought,

  Which euer-more for fame and honor sought.

  80

  Thou hatefull Monster, base Ingratitude,

  Soules mortall poyson, deadly-killing wound,

  Deceitfull Serpent, seeking to delude,

  Black lothsome ditch, where all desert is drownd,

  Vile Pestilence, which all things doost confound:

  At first created to none other end,

  But to grieue those who nothing could offend.

  81

  Such as too well perceiu’d the Kings intent,

  In whom remayn’d yet anie sparke of grace,

  Pyttying a poore distressed innocent,

  Their safetie still depending on my case,

  These in my wrongs participate a place.

  These, bound in friendship, & alied in blood,

  Fast to my Father in the quarrel stood.

  82

  But as a Lyon in the wilds of Thrace,

  With darts and arrowes gauled at the bay,

  Kills man and beast incountring in the chase,

  And downe on heaps the fearfull Heards doth lay,

  His armed pawes each where doth make his way:

  Thus by his power, the King doth now surprise,

  Such as in Arms resist his tyrannies.

  83

  Oh strange strange loue, yet stop thy head-strong course,

  Ere yt be quite transported into hate:

  Too violent thus spurr’st thou on thy force,

  To come vnto thy fearfull ruin’d date;

  Let not thy frailtie yet fore-tell thy fate:

  That loue with loue, should fall to ciuill warrs,

  Wisdom, a star, which rules the angriest starrs.

  84

  And giuen ouer to his vile desire,

  The spectacle of lothsome sinne and shame,

  Our strong-built Castles now hee sets on fire,

  And (like proude Nero) warms him by the flame,

  Wasting themselues, augmenting his defame:

  Which like bright Beacons, blaze in euery eye,

  Warning all others of his tyra
nnie.

  85

  Our friends & followers thus are beaten downe,

  Whom every slaue and pesant dare reuile,

  And all reputed Traytors to the Crowne,

  Imprisoned some, some forc’d into exile;

  Yet worst of all, (remedilesse the while,)

  My Father sent a banish’d man to Fraunce,

  And here perforce must leaue me to my chaunce.

  86

  Be mercifull (sweet Death) and come not thus

  In Banishments black shape, so full of feare,

  In thine owne likenes gently comfort vs,

  As when to wretched men thou doost appeare,

  Looke not vpon vs with sad moody cheore:

  Thou art not pale, grim, fearfull, gaftly, dull,

  But amorous, young, milde, louely, beautifull.

  87

  Thou goest to griefe, and I must stay to woe,

  Thy absence, bringeth horrors presence still,

  Thou going, staiest, and staying, I doe goe,

  Thou leau’st me, leau’st with me, leau’st me to ill,

  Thy flight, my fight, thy safety me doth kill:

  Thou tak’st my fall with thee, in me forsaking,

  Forsake me then, away me with thee taking.

  88

  ON shyp-bord now, wt hands rear’d to the skyes

  (All sigh’d and wept, could sigh nor weepe no more,)

  He turns his sad eclipsed teareful eyes,

  As retrograde vnto the blessed shore;

  Rich Ile (quoth he) once Garner of my store,

  Taken from me by yonder Tyrants theft,

  And I as poore as ere was Irus left.

  89

  Tis not my wealth, that, I esteeme as light,

  Nor yet my Country, though so deere to mee,

  But thou alone Matilda, my delight,

  My life, my soule, all my felicitie,

  Left as a pray, vile Monster vnto thee.

  Yet my laments are wasted all in vaine,

  And to these winds and billows must coplaine.

  90

  Pittie, if in thy drop be-dewed eye

  Thou hast one teare of wonder to let fall,

  That one drop spent, be euer after dry,

  But keepe that one to comfort me withall:

  Sweet honny teare, sweeten my bitter gall;

  But if thine eye, whith mine eyes be drawn dry,

  Trans-forme me then, euen all into an eye.

  91

  But now the Wolfe is got into my fold,

  God help the Lambe that’s in the Lyons power;

  Alas poore Maid, thus art thou bought and sold,

  Prepared for the slaughter euery howre,

  This Minataure must all my hopes deuoure.

  Yet forc’d by Fortune to endure this woe,

  And vnreueng’d vnto my graue shall goe.

  92

  Liue in mee Death, and I in thee will liue,

  Be thou my selfe, and I will still be thee,

  Giue thou to mee, and I to thee will giue,

  And in perpetuall vnion let vs bee:

  Thou I, I thou, one vndeuided wee.

  Death giue life strength, life, thou to death lend breath,

  Death be my life, and life be thou my death.

  93

  Within the furrowes of my aged browes,

  My ioyes must theyr vntimelie buriall haue,

  Thys fatall Tombe proud Fortune them allowes,

  Which thus with-holds me fro my wished graue,

  The heauens are deafe although I iustly craue,

  My teares with griese are frozen in mine eyes,

  Yet God, nor man, regards my miseries.

  94

  Immortall Hate, for pittie sit and weepe,

  And Woe, for woe seeke from thy selfe to flye,

  Dyre Passion, be thou drown’d in passions deepe,

  And Death, for sorrow, in my sorrows dye,

  He be my selfe, if thou wilt not be I:

  In the attire of my pale Image dight thee,

  If shape of my sad griefes doe not affright thee.

  95

  Thrice famous Romaine, (fortunate to me)

  By whose owne hands thy deerest child was slaine,

  Deliuer’d so from slauish tyrannie,

  But liuing, mine dishonor’d shall remaine,

  Blotting my name with an immortall staine;

  Whose black reproch, for euer shall endure,

  Ah vile disease, that neuer time can cure.

  96

  The soules departure, giues the body rest,

  My bodies parting, giues my soule new care,

  My soule, of his abode is dispossest,

  My body, endles banisht to despaire,

  My soule and body, soule nor body are:

  My soule with hers, hers killing mine alone,

  My body hers, hers mine, neither our owne.

  97

  Euen as the kinde sleep-breaking Nightingale,

  (The cruell Merlin ceaz’d her little one)

  Vnto the thickets tells a wofull tale,

  Wearying the woods with her continuall mone,

  This pore bird chirpeth, he pore Lord doth grone.

  Shee weeps all night, by day complaineth hee,

  Shee for her young one, he laments for mee.

  98

  Looke how a Sea, the tyde once beeing past,

  Whose surges stroue the Continent to clime,

  And bounding backe vnto the Gulfe at last,

  Vpon the Sands doth leaue a clammie slime,

  Teares in his cheeks, such gutters worne in time.

  Wash’d wt the floods of his still-trobled braine,

  His eyes brim full, as furrows after raine.

  99

  And thus my Father vnawares betray’d,

  A thousand sorrowes mee at once assaile;

  What might I doe, a silly helplesse Mayde,

  Tost and turmoild in this tempestious gale?

  These boysterous flaws haue broke down my saile

  My succours thus (like shadows) now are gone,

  Not one remaines to whom to make my mone.

  100

  Now, like a Roe, before the hounds imbost,

  When ouer-toyl’d his swiftnes doth aslake,

  Forsakes the Plaines, to which he trusted most,

  And to the couert doth himselfe betake,

  Where doubling still, creeps on fro brake to brake,

  Thus doe I flie before the Princes face,

  Who day and night pursues mee still in chase.

  101

  THE Coast is cleere, suspitious eyes at rest,

  And all things fadge which further his desire:

  Now royall hope keepes reuels in his brest,

  The coales are quick, and Fancie blowes the fire,

  His loue expects his long deserued hire.

  No clowde discern’d to hinder this his sun,

  The watch discharg’d, he hopes ye towne is won.

  102

  The Princes armes are stretcht from shore to shore,

  Kings sleeping, see with eyes of other men,

  Craft findes a kay to open euery doore,

  What might I do, or what auailes me then?

  The silly Lambe liues in the Lyons Den.

  Loues wakeful eyes (too soone alas) discri’d me,

  And found me, wher I surest thought to hide me.

  103

  My Ioue, like Ioue, now seekes mee to inuade,

  And roysting comes, in thunder-bolts and raine,

  A Beast, a Bird, a Satyre in the shade,

  A flood, a fire, a Serpent, and a Swaine,

  Camelion-like, as fitt’st my loue to gaine.

  Now like great Phoebus in his golden Carre,

  And then like Mars, the fearefull God of war.

  104

  Hee makes the ayre to wooe mee whilst I talke,

  The winde to whistle many a pleasant Dittie,

  Th
e dainty Grasse make musick as I walke,

  The pretty flowers to moue me still to pitty:

  All sencelesse things with reason seeming witty:

  Before mine eyes hee euer doth appeare,

  And if I call, still aunswers, I am heere.

  105

  My steps are told, my paths by Spyes are noted,

  Mine eyes by Night-spells shut within the watch,

  My words are way’d by iealous loue that doted,

  And at my thoughts, Ill-meaning still doth catch,

  Into my counsells Treason drawes the latch:

  And at my gates, Suspition still doth ward,

  Sorrow my hand-maid, Falshood on my gard.

  106

  He weeps his words, but words could win no tears,

  The raine doth cease or ere the floods doe rise,

  His wofull words his tongue a while forbeares,

  Then doth he his harts arrant with his eyes:

  His eyes eclipz’d, he then with sighes supplies.

  Sighes faile, wt smiles he then bewraies his paine,

  Smiling, he weeps, yet weeping, laughs againe.

  107

  Looke how the Peacock ruffs his flaunting tayle,

  And struts vnder his mooned Canapie,

  And how he quiuers with his plumed sayle,

  Yet when his Lead-pale leggs he haps to see,

  With shame abates his painted iolitie.

  The King, as proude as Peacock in my loue,

  yet droups again whe words nor tears could moue

  108

  My breast, of Flint, a rock impenitrable,

  My hart, that stone which neuer toole could perce,

  My thoughts, a Center, and vnsearchable,

  My words, iudgment, wc law could not reuerse,

  My frownes, such clowds, as no ioy could disperse,

  Tygars are tam’d with patience and with skill,

  All things made subiect, but a womans will.

  109

  The King like one sick of a strange disease,

  Whose cruell paine no phisick can asswage,

  Nor plaster can his torments once appease,

  Boyling his entrails with such hellish rage,

  With his owne knife his horror doth engage.

  Thus desperate, he, fore-thinks to end this strife,

  Or els by poyson take away my life.

  110

  But first, with lines hee brauely setteth on,

  Words steep’d in syrrop of Ambrosia,

  Sweet method, sauoured with inuention,

  What can be said that Louers cannot say?

  Desire can make a Docter in a day:

  Each sentence seem’d a sweet inchauting charme,

  A trumpet sounding gentle Loues alarme.

  111

  With rare hart-curing Phrigian harmonie

  Hee tunes his strings, as not a trebble iarrs,

  His straines so pleasant and melodious be,

  As might appease the heat of fearefull warrs,

  Distilling Balme to cure the greatest scarrs: