Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  His pen, dilates his harts Apologie,

  And shewes my sinnes, by loues Theologie.

  122

  What curious thing did Nature ere bring forth,

  What glistering starre that yeelds his siluer shine,

  To which he doth not now compare my worth?

  Or what is there, thats mortall or diuine,

  What sublimation doth hee not refine?

  Or what rare thing was euer yet deuised,

  That vnto mee he hath not lightly prized?

  113

  Now mounts he vp with loftie straines of loue,

  Then to sad vaines his pliant Muse doth bow,

  His humors seruing, as his passions moue,

  And as the Tydes, the numbers ebbe and flow;

  His hopes now wither, then againe they grow,

  Painting his griefe, in hope to quench desire,

  But inck to loue, like oyle vnto the fire.

  114

  And now, of one hee had himselfe aduis’d,

  Both red and practiz’d in this wretched Art,

  Within whose braine all mischiefes were copris’d,

  Whose words were venom, & his tongue a Dart,

  And thys is hee must act thys damned part.

  To him, the King my poysoning doth commit,

  Who had before made tryall of his wit.

  115

  Another Dagon was thys miscreant,

  A deuill, walking in a humane shape,

  Foule Dagon, borne true vertue to supplant,

  For whom th’ infernall pyt of hell doth gape:

  Image of pride, of villanie, and rape,

  Bee thou abhord of all posteritie,

  And let thy vile dishonour neuer die.

  116

  By him to Dunmow, hee these lines conuayde,

  A Monestary Iuga had begun,

  Iuga, sometime a holy Vestall Mayde,

  At whose great charge this Monument was done,

  Where I had vow’d to liue a holy Nun,

  And in my Cloister, kept amongst the rest,

  Which in this place virginitie profest.

  117

  NOW, he which had this bloody act in charge,

  Thether repairs, with Letters from the King,

  Whose black Commission was but all too large

  To execute so base and vile a thing:

  This messenger, which now my death doth bring,

  To add fit matter to my tragicke storie,

  Finds means to boord mee in my oratorie.

  118

  With courtly congies gently greeting mee,

  Giues me the packet which the King had sent mee,

  Receiue faire Maid, these Letters here (quoth he)

  The faithfull earnest of that good is meant thee,

  But crauing that which neuer shall repent thee.

  His lines be loue, the letters writ in blood,

  Then make no doubt, the warrant passing good.

  119

  Kindly accept a Princes kingly offer,

  Tis more then folly if thou doe refuse it:

  Neuer hath Fortune made a fairer profer,

  The gyft too great, if fondly thou abuse it,

  Nor any reason sorueth to excuse it.

  Be not a foe vnto thine owne good hap,

  Refusing treasure throwne into thy lap.

  120

  Eares, eyes, hands, nostrils, tongue, th’ instruments

  To heare, to see, to touch, to smell, to tast,

  Sounds, pleasurs, softs, smells, meats, & euery sence,

  Euen as a King, with his delight is plac’t,

  Nature yet neuer framed thing in wast,

  O to her power an horrible offence,

  This prophane vse of froward continence.

  121

  If thou be wise, hold this as ominous,

  The heauens not like disposed euery howre,

  The starrs be still predominant in vs,

  Fortune not alwaies forth her bags doth poure,

  Nor euerie clowde doth raine a golden showre,

  Occasion’s wing’d, and euer flyeth fast,

  Comming, she smiles, & frowns once being past.

  122

  Wrong not thy selfe, nor yet the world depriue,

  Of that rare good which Nature freely lent,

  Think’st thou by such base nygardize to thriue,

  In sparing that which neuer will be spent?

  And that is worst, in age shall thee repent:

  Playing the Churle, to hoord vp beauties pelfe,

  And liue, and die, and all vnto thy selfe.

  123

  Fye on this lyppish lisping fond forsooth,

  Thys chyldish nicenes, and these pettish noes,

  A gracefull smyle, ye wrinkling brow doth smooth,

  Pennance and Pleasure, still are mortall soes,

  Let springing youth reiourne old ages woes,

  Away with fasting, beggerly deuotion,

  Thys is no way to climbe vnto promotion.

  124

  Yet, were this all (quoth he) as would it were,

  But there is more, which needs I must reueale,

  Behold the poyson hee hath sent thee here,

  Which on my life I dare not to conceale,

  Thus is the King determined to deale:

  I, onely waite vpon thy resolution,

  To win thy loue, or see thy execution.

  125

  Leaue of these humors, be not singuler,

  Make not an Idoll of thine owne perfection,

  Prize not this word (Virginitie) so deere,

  Seeme not so Saint-like, moou’d wt no affection.

  Beautie brings perrill, wanting safe protection,

  Forswear this drouzie mellancholie Cell,

  Was neuer Girle could grace a Court so well.

  126

  This feare first sprong from foolish superstition,

  Which fond conceit into our eares hath blowne,

  Which we receiue from old folkes by tradition,

  And as a weede to choke our ioyes is growne:

  Reason rootes out what Error erst hath sowne.

  A gentle iest to fright poore babes withall,

  Like to a Bug-beare, painted on a wall.

  127

  Tush, these be triuiall toyes of reputation,

  Whose Ceremonies haue the world infected,

  Held in regard but onely for a fashion,

  Which friuolous, the wiser haue neglected:

  And but as Dreames of doting age respected.

  Whose spleen-sick humors on their galls were fed

  Thinking all true which they imagined.

  128

  Religion was deuis’d by pollicie,

  A subtill shaddow couering all excesse,

  As Nature giues you seeming modestie,

  To shaddow that, you would too soone expresse,

  O, cunning only is true holines.

  Blush, pray, be patient, most of all most chast,

  Thus by deceit, delights must be imbrac’t.

  129

  Dispatch, (quoth he) loe, here is pen and inke,

  Here make the Prince assurance of thy loue,

  Or els prepare thee to thy fatall drinke,

  Which is of force thy Feuer to remoue:

  Which (ah pore fondling) thou too soone maist proue.

  And if thy will be so fast chayn’d to thee,

  Let thine own hands the Executioners bee.

  130

  And is (quoth I) the Princes pleasure thus?

  You are deceiu’d, he doth but this to try me,

  I know my Lord is kind and gracious,

  He thinks my sexe, & weaknes will disery me;

  I hope the King will deale more kindly by me.

  Those blessed hands, which neuer did but good,

  Will not be stain’d with virgins guiltlesse blood.

  131

  As he doth raigne, his mind should truly raigne

 
In one consent their gouernment agree,

  His publick rule his Subiects should restraine,

  Affections, subiect to his mind should be,

  Then absolute is it, absolute he.

  His mind commaunding, kingly by abstaining,

  As his commaund is absolute in raigning.

  132

  His thoughts be pure, as Christall, without spot,

  He is wisdom, honour, valure, chastitie:

  What excellence is there that he is not?

  Or what may be, by him which cannot be?

  He’s Vertues true superlatiue degree.

  From his affections, neuer can proceed,

  One little thought of this so vile a deed.

  133

  Kings be the Gods Vizgerents here on earth,

  The Gods haue power, Kings fro that power haue might,

  Kings should excell in vertue as in birth,

  Gods punish wrongs, & kings shold maintain right,

  They be the Suunes from which we borrow light.

  And they as Kings, should still in iustice striue,

  With Gods, from who their beings they deriue.

  134

  Empire euen like the Sunne doth draw all eyes,

  And his Eclipse the soonest doth appeare,

  Small vapours seeme great lights drawn to the skies

  Things ouer-head though far, shew euer neare,

  Small staines be great in things shold be most cleare,

  Nothing so soone discernd by humaine sight,

  As is the cloud which hides the cheerfull light.

  135

  Inrag’d with this, (in greefes extremitie,)

  Minion, (quoth he,) tis now no time to prate,

  Dispatch, or els Ile drench you presently,

  Of this, nor that, I stand not to debate.

  Expects thou loue where thou reward’st with hate?

  I passe not I, how ere thou like the motion,

  Haue done at once, and quickly take the Potion.

  136

  THIS sudden terror makes me pause for breath,

  Till sighing out, at length this sad reply:

  If it be so, welcom to me my death,

  This is the vtmost of extremitie,

  And yet when all is done, I can but die.

  His will be done, sith he will haue it so,

  And welcome Death, the end of all my woe.

  137

  My loue is his, whilst loue to him is due,

  Allegiance binds that loue, that loue tyes truth,

  Vntrue to him, if to my selfe vntrue,

  Suspect is still a Page that waites on Youth,

  Ensuing that which of it selfe ensu’th.

  Plasters cure wounds, nothing a wounded name,

  Kings pardon death, but cannot pardon shame.

  138

  And thou my Deaths-man, slaue vnto his lust,

  Th’ executioner of his lawlesse will,

  In whom the Tyrant doth repose such trust,

  Detract no time, his murthering mind fulfill;

  Doe what thou dar’st, the worst thou canst but kill.

  And tell the Tyrant this when I am dead,

  I loath’d his beastly and adulterous bed.

  139

  Nor let the King thy Maister euer thinke,

  A vertuous Maid so cowardly and base,

  As to be frighted with a poysoned drinke,

  And liue an abiect in the worlds disgrace:

  All eyes with shame to gaze me in the face.

  That ages which heer-after shall succeede,

  Shall hold me hatefull for so vile a deede.

  140

  Strange be effects, strange things in loue to proue,

  He would take from me, what he cannot take,

  He loues my hate, and doth but hate my loue,

  And would vnmake what he doth striue to make,

  And thus must loue, be punisht for loues sake.

  And would compell by force, so to be held,

  Which is, nor was, nor can be, if compeld.

  141

  To make that his, which then cannot be his,

  Which if once had, is perisht being had,

  Nor is not then the same that now it is,

  Striuing to get what he to loose is glad,

  When pleasure with extreame excesse is mad.

  Poore in the riches which haue spoiled me,

  I rich in that, in which I poore should be.

  142

  Is this the greatest gyft he could bestowe?

  Is this the Iewell, wher-with he doth present me?

  I am his friend, what gives he to his foe,

  If this in token of his loue be sent me?

  Remedilesse I am, it must content me.

  Yet afterward, a prouerb this shall proue,

  The gyft King Iohn bestow’d vpon his Loue.

  143

  Then of this conquest let thy Soueraigne boast,

  And make report with shame what he hath done:

  A thing more easie then subdue an Hoast,

  Or conquer Kingdoms, as his Father wonne;

  O haplesse Sire, of this vnhappy Sonne.

  And he more shame shall carrie to his graue,

  Then Fortune honors to his Father gaue.

  144

  Thus spoke my mind, (as women vse to doe,)

  Hoping thereby som-what to ease my hart,

  But words I found, did but increase my woe,

  Augment his rage, not mittigate my smart;

  And now comes in the reckoning ere we part.

  And now my valure must be try’d, or neuer,

  Or famous now, or infamous for euer.

  145

  Taking the poyson from his deadly hand,

  Vnto the King caroust my latest draught;

  Goe wretch (quoth I) now let him vnderstand,

  He hath obtayn’d what he so long hath sought;

  Though with my blood, my fame I deerly bought.

  And though my youth he basely haue betrayd,

  Yet witnes Heauen, I liu’d and dyed a Mayd.

  146

  This cup the pen, this poyson is the inke,

  And in this vntoucht table of my brest,

  To him I’le freely write what I doe thinke,

  Where he shall find it feelingly exprest.

  And what I doe omit, tell thou the rest.

  Yet rather then in any thing we’le varie,

  We iointly will become one Secretarie.

  147

  Then why repine I, sith he thinks it meete,

  He is my Soueraigne, and my life is his,

  Death is not bitter, spyc’d with such a sweet,

  Which leads the way to euerlasting blis;

  He’s all my ioy, he all my glory is.

  He is the tuch by whom my gold is tryed,

  Onely by him my death is glorified.

  148

  For could my life, haue giuen life to me,

  My youths faire flower, yet blooming, had not died,

  Then how should this but meritorious be,

  When by my death, my life is sanctified?

  Could euer thing more fitly be applied?

  In this is loue, in this his care I find,

  My Lord is iust, my Lord is only kind.

  149

  Then let these teares, th’Elixars of my loue,

  Be to his soule a pure preseruatiue,

  And let my prayers be of such force to moue,

  That by my death, my Soueraigne may suruiue:

  And from his raigne, let Fame herselfe deriue

  His glory, like the Sunnes translucent rayes,

  And as the heauen, eternall be his dayes.

  150

  And thou my carefull kind Phisition,

  For phisick now thy patients patient be,

  Appeale to heauen with true contrition,

  And in thy conscience glasse thy foule sinne see,

  To thee I’le be, as thou hast beene to mee
.

  This potion take, to rid thee from dispaire,

  Euen as thy potion, shall rid me of care.

  151

  Faith finds free passage to Gods mercy seat,

  Repentance carries heauens eternall kayes,

  The greater sinnes bewept, mercy more great,

  A harty will makes straight th’ offenders wayes,

  Heauen rings for ioy when once a sinner prayes.

  Of these sweet simples is my drink compounded,

  Which shall cure both our soules, both deeplie wounded.

  152

  This mortall poyson, now begins to rage,

  And spreads his vigor thorough all my vaines,

  There is no phisick can my greefe aswage,

  Such is the torment which my hart destraines,

  Boyling my intrales in most hellish paines,

  And Nature weakned of her wonted force,

  Must yeeld to death, which now hath no remorce.

  153

  And those pure thoughts, which once I choisly fed,

  Now when pale death my sences doth surprize,

  I offer her vpon my dying bed,

  This precious, sweet, perfumed sacrifice:

  Hallowed in my almighty Makers eyes.

  Which from this Alter, lends me heauenly light,

  Guiding my soule amid this darksome night.

  154

  My glorious life, my spotlesse Chastitie.

  Now at this hower be all the ioyes I haue,

  These be the wings by which my fame shall flye,

  In memorie, these shall my Name engraue;

  These, from obliuion shall mine honour saue.

  With Laurell, these my browes shall coronize,

  And make me liue to all posterities.

  155

  Our fond preferments, are but childrens toyes,

  And as a shaddow, all our pleasures passe,

  As yeeres increase, so wayning are our ioyes,

  And beautie crazed, like a broken glasse:

  A prettie tale of that which neuer was,

  All things decay, yet Vertue shall not dye,

  This onely giues vs immortalitie.

  156

  My soule, thus from her pryson set at large,

  And gently freed from this poluted roome,

  This prize vnladen from this lothsome Barge,

  (Such is the Heauens ineuitable doome:)

  My body layd at Dunmow in my Toombe.

  Thus Baynards-Castle boasts my blessed birth,

  And Dunmow kindly wraps me in her earth.

  157

  NOW scarcely was my breathlesse body cold,

  But euery where my Tragedy was spred:

  And Fame, abroad in euery Coast had told,

  My resolution, being lately dead:

  The glorious wonder of all women-head.

  And to my Father flyes with this report,

  Who liu’d an Exile in the French-Kings Court.

  158

  His griefe, too great to be bewail’d with teares,

  Words insufficient, to expresse his woe,