Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  And setting fire vpon the welked shrowds,

  Now through the heauen flye gadding from the yoke,

  The Sphears all reeking with a mistie smoke,

  Drawne with such life, as some did much desire

  To warme themselues, some frighted with the fire.

  And Drencht in Po, the Riuer seemes to burne,

  His wofull sisters, mourning there he sees,

  Trees vnto women seeme themselues to turne,

  Or rather women turned into trees,

  Drops from their boughs, or tears fall from their eyes,

  That fire seem’d to be water, water flame,

  Eyther or neyther, and yet both the same.

  A stately Bed vnder a golden tree,

  Whose broad-leau’d branches couering ouer all,

  Spread their large Armes like to a Canapy,

  Dubbling themselues in their lasciuious fall,

  Vpon whose top the flying Cupids spraule,

  And some, at sundry cullored byrds doe shute,

  Some swaruing vp to get the golden fruite.

  A counterpoynt of Tyssue, rarely wrought,

  Like to Arachnes web, of the Gods rape,

  Which with his lifes strange history is wrought,

  The very manner of his hard escape,

  From poynt to poynt, each thing in perfect shape,

  As made the gazers thinke it there was done,

  And yet time stayd in which it was begun.

  During thys calme, is gather’d that black showre,

  Whose vglie clowde the clyme had ouer-spred,

  And now drawes on that long death-dating howre,

  His fatall starre now hangeth o’re his head,

  His fortunes sunne downe towards the euening fled,

  For when we thinke we most in safety stand,

  Great’st dangers then are euer near’st at hand.

  And Edward sees no meanes can euer boote,

  Vnlesse thys head-strong course he may restraine,

  And must pluck vp these mischiefs by the roote,

  Els spred so farre, might easely grow againe,

  And end theyr raigne, if he doe meane to raigne;

  The Common-weale to cure, brought to that passe,

  Which like a many-headed Monster was.

  But sith he finds the danger to be such,

  To bring this Beare once bayted to the slake,

  And that he feeles the forwardest to gruch,

  To take in hand this sleeping dog to wake,

  He must fore-think of some such course to take,

  By which he might his purpose thus effect,

  And hurt him most, where he might least suspect.

  A trenched vault deepe in the earth is found,

  Whose hollownes, like to the Sleep-gods Cell,

  With strange Meanders turneth vnder ground,

  Where pitchy darknes euer-more doth dwell,

  As well might be an entrance into hell.

  Which Archyteckts, to serue the Castell made,

  When as the Dane with warrs did all inuade.

  Heere silent night, as in a pryson shrowded,

  Wandreth about within thys mazed roome,

  With filthy fogs, and earthly vapors clowded,

  As shee were buried in this cliffy toombe,

  Or yet vnborne within the earths great woombe.

  A dampy breath comes from the moysted vaines,

  As shee had sigh’d through trouble in her paines.

  Now on a long this cranckling path doth keepe,

  Then by a rock turnes vp another way,

  Then rising vp, shee poynteth towards the deepe,

  As the ground leuell, or vnleuell lay,

  Nor in his course keepes any certaine stay,

  Till in the Castell in a secret place,

  He suddainly vnmaske his duskie face.

  The King now with a strong selected crue,

  Of such as he with his intent acquainted,

  And well affected to thys action knew,

  Nor in reuenge of Edward neuer fainted,

  Whose loyall fayth had neuer yet beene tainted,

  This Labyrinth dertermins to assay,

  To rouze the beast which kept him thus at bay.

  The blushing Sunne, plucks in his smyling beames,

  Making his steeds to mend theyr wonted pace,

  Till plunging downe into the Ocean streames,

  There in the frothy waues he hides his face,

  Then reynes them in, more then his vsuall space,

  And leaues foule darknes to possesse the skyes,

  A time most fit for fouler tragedies.

  With Torches now they enter on his Caue,

  As night were day, and day were turnd to night,

  Damp’d with the soyle one to the other gaue,

  Light hating darknes, darknes hating light,

  As enemies, each with the other fight;

  And each confounding other, both appeare,

  As darknes light, and light but darknes were.

  The craggy cleeues, which crosse them as they goe,

  Seeme as their passage they would haue denied,

  And threatning them, their iourney to for-slowe,

  As angry with the path that was their guide,

  Cursing the hand which did them first deuide,

  Theyr combrous falls and risings seem’d to say,

  Thys wicked action could not brooke the day.

  These gloomy Lamps, by which they on were led,

  Making theyr shaddowes follow at theyr back,

  Which like to Mourners, waite vpon the dead,

  And as the deed, so are they vgly black,

  Like to the dreadfull Images of wrack;

  These poore dym-burning lights, as all amazed,

  As those deformed shades whereon they gazed.

  Theyr clattering Armes, their Masters seeme to chyde,

  As they would reason wherefore they should wound.

  And striking with the poynts from side to side,

  As they were angry with the hollow ground,

  Whose stony roofe lock’d in their dolefull found:

  And hanging in the creeks, draw backe againe,

  As willing them from murther to refraine.

  Now, after masks and gallant reuelings,

  The Queene vnto the Chamber is with-drawne,

  To whom a cleer-voyc’d Eunuch playes and sings;

  And vnderneath a Canapy of Lawne,

  Sparkling with pearle, like to the cheerfull dawne,

  Leaning vpon the breast of Mortimer,

  Whose voice more then the musick pleasd her eare.

  A smock wrought with the purest Affrick silke,

  A worke so fine, as might all worke refine,

  Her breast like strains of violets in milk,

  O be thou hence-forth Beauties liuing shrine,

  And teach things mortall to be most diuine.

  Enclose Loue in thys Labyrinth about,

  Where let him wander still, yet ne’re get out.

  Her golden hayre, ah gold, thou art too base,

  Were it not sinne but once to name it hayre,

  Fal•ing as it would kisse her fairer face,

  But no word fayre enough for thing so fayre,

  Inuention is too bare, to paynt her bare;

  But where the pen fayles, Pensill cannot show it,

  Nor can be knowne, vnlesse the minde doe knowe it.

  Shee layes those fingers on his manly cheeke,

  The Gods pure scepters, and the darts of loue,

  Which with one tuch might make a Tyger meeke,

  Or might an Atlas easely remoue:

  That lilly hand, rich Natures wedding gloue,

  Which might beget life where was neuer none,

  And put a spirit into the hardest stone.

  The fire of precious wood, the lights perfume,

  Whose perfect cleernes, on the painting shone,

  As euery thing with sweetnes w
ould consume,

  And euery thing had sweetnes of his owne,

  The smell where-with they liu’d, & alwaies growne,

  That light gaue cullour on each thing it fell,

  And to that cullour, the perfume gaue smell.

  Vpon the sundry pictures they deuise,

  And from one thing they to an other runne,

  Now they commend that body, then those eyes,

  How well that byrd, how well that flower was done,

  The liuely counterfetting of that sunne:

  The cullors, the conceits, the shadowings,

  And in that Arte a thousand sundrie things.

  Looking vpon proud Phaeton wrapd in fier,

  The gentle Queene doth much bewaile his fall,

  But Mortimer more praysing his desier,

  To loose his lyfe or else to gouerne all:

  And though (quoth he) he now be Fortunes thrall,

  This must be sayd of him when all is done,

  Hee perrish’d in the Chariot of the Sunne.

  Glaunsing vpon Ixion, shee doth smile,

  Who for his Iuno tooke the cloud amisse;

  Madam (quoth hee) thus women can beguile,

  And oft we find in loue, this error is,

  Why friend (quoth shee) thy hap is lyke to his:

  That booteth not (quoth he) were he as I,

  Ioue would haue beene in monstrous iealousie.

  (Shee sayth) Phoebus is too much forc’d by Art,

  Nor can shee find how his imbraces bee:

  But Mortimer now takes the Paynters part,

  Tis euen thus great Empresse, so (quoth hee)

  Thus twyne their armes, and thus their lips you see:

  You Phoebus are, poore Hiacinthus I,

  Kisse mee till I reuiue, and now I die.

  By this into the vttermost stately hall,

  Is rudely entred this disordred rout,

  And they within suspecting least of all,

  Prouide no guard to watch on them without,

  Thus danger falls oft-times, when least we doubt:

  In perrill thus we thinke our selues most sure,

  And oft in death fond men are most secure.

  His trustie Neuill, and young Turrington,

  Courting the Ladies, frolick voyd of feare,

  Staying delights whilst time away doth runne,

  What rare Emprezas hee and he did beare,

  Thus in the Lobby whilst they sporting weare:

  Assayld on sudaine by this hellish trayne,

  Both in the entrance miserably slayne.

  Euen as from snow-topd Skidos frostie cleeues,

  Some Norway Haggard, to her pitch doth tower,

  And downe amongst the moore-bred Mallard driues,

  And through the aire, right down the wind doth scower,

  Commaunding all that lye within her power:

  Euen such a skreame is hard within the vault,

  Made by the Ladies at the first assault.

  March hath no armes, but the Queene in his armes,

  To fayre a sheeld to beare their fouler blowes,

  Enchayning his strong armes, in her sweet armes,

  Inclosing them which oft did her inclose,

  O had he had but weapons lyke his woes:

  Her presence had redoubled then his might,

  To lyue and dye both in his soueraigns sight.

  Villians (quoth hee) I doe protect the King,

  Why Centaure-lyke doe you disturbe me this,

  And interrupt the Gods at banquetting,

  Where sacred Himen euer present is,

  And pleasures are imparadizd in blis:

  Where all they powers, their earthly heauen would take,

  If heere on earth they their abode should make.

  Her presence pardons the offenders ill,

  And makes the basest earthly thing diuine,

  Ther’s no decree can countermaund her will,

  Shee like the Sunne, doth blesse where she doth shine,

  Her Chamber is the most vnspotted shrine:

  How sacriligiously dare you despise,

  And thus prophane these halowed liberties.

  But Edward, if this enterprize be thine,

  And thou an Actor heere do’st play thy part,

  I tell thee then base King thy Crowne was mine,

  And thou a King but of my making art.

  And now poore worme since thou hast taken hart,

  Thou would’st hew downe that pillar vnto wrack,

  Which hath sustaynd Olimpus on his back.

  What can he doe, that is so hard beset?

  The heauen-threatning Gyants, heauen could tame,

  Proud Mars is bound within an yron-net,

  Alcides burnt in Nessus poysned flame,

  Great Ioue can shake the vniuersall frame:

  He that was wont to call his sword to ayde,

  Tis hard with him, when he must stand to plead.

  O hadst thou in thy glory thus beene slayne,

  All thy delights had beene of easie rate,

  But now thy fame yet neuer tuch’d with stayne,

  Must thus be branded with thy haplesse fate,

  No man is happie till his lyfes last date:

  His pleasures must be of a dearer price,

  Poore Adam driuen out of Paradice.

  Halfe drownd in tears, she followes him: ô tears,

  Elixar like, turne all to pearle you weet,

  To weepe with her, the building scarce forbears,

  Stones Metamorphizd tuch’d but with her feete,

  And make the ayre for euerlasting sweet:

  Wringing her hands with pittious shreeking cries,

  Thus vtters shee her hard extreamities.

  Edward (quoth shee) let not his blood beshed,

  Each drop of it is more worth then thy Crowne,

  What Region is in Europe limitted,

  Where doth not shine, the Sunne of his renowne?

  His sword hath set Kings vp, & thrown them downe:

  Thou knowst that Empires neuer haue confind,

  The large-spred bounds of his vnconquer’d mind.

  And if thou feed’st vpon thy Fathers wrongs,

  Make not reuenge, to bring reuenge on thee,

  What torture thou inflict’st, to me belongs,

  And what is due to death, is due to mee,

  Imagine that his wounds fresh bleeding bee:

  Forget thy birth, thy crowne, thy loue, thy Mother,

  And in this breast thy sword in vengeance smother.

  O let my hands held vp appease this stryfe,

  O let these knees at which thou oft hast stood,

  Now kneele to thee, to beg my lyues true lyfe,

  This wombe that bare thee, breast that gaue thee food,

  Or let my blood yet purchase his deere blood:

  O let my tears which neuer thing could force,

  Constraynd by this, yet moue thee to remorce.

  But all in vaine, still Edwards ghost appears,

  And cryes reuenge, reuenge, vnto his Sonne,

  And now the voyce of wofull Kent hee hears,

  And bids him followe what he had begun,

  Nor will they rest till execution done:

  The very sight of him he deadly hated,

  Sharpens the edge, his Mothers tears rebated.

  To London now a wofull prisoner led,

  London where he had tryumph’d with the Queene,

  He followeth now, whom many followed,

  And scarce a man, who many men had beene,

  Seeing with greefe who had in pompe been seene:

  Those eyes which oft haue at his greatnes gazed,

  Now at his fall must stand as all amazed.

  Oh misery, where once thou art possest,

  How soone thy faynt infection alters kind,

  And lyke a Cyrce turnest man to beast,

  And with the body do’st transforme the mind,

  That can in fetters our affecti
ons bind:

  That he whose back once bare the Lyons skin,

  Whipt to his taske, with Iole must spin.

  Edward and March vnite your angry spirits,

  Become new friends of auncient Enemies,

  Hee was thy death, and he thy death inherits,

  How well you consort in your miseries,

  And in true time tune your aduersities:

  Fortune gaue him, what shee to Edward gaue,

  Not so much as thy end but he will haue.

  At Westminster a Parliament decreed,

  Vnder pretence of safetie to the Crowne,

  Where to his fatall end they now proceed,

  All working hard to dig this Mountayne downe,

  With his owne greatnes that is ouer-growne:

  The King, the Earle of Kent, the Spensers fall,

  Vpon his head with vengeance thundring all.

  The death of Edward neuer is forgot,

  The signe at Stanhope to the Enemies,

  Ione of the Towers marriage to the Scot,

  The Spensers coyne seaz’d to his treasuries,

  Th’assuming of the wards and Lyueries:

  These Articles they vrge which might him greeue,

  Which for his creed, he neuer did beleeue.

  Oh dire reuenge, when thou in time art rak’d

  From out the ashes which preserue thee long,

  And lightly from thy cinders art awak’d,

  Fuell to feed on, and reuiu’d with wrong,

  How sonne from sparks the greatest flames are sprong:

  Which doth by Nature to his top aspire,

  Whose massie greatnes once kept downe his fier.

  Debar’d from speech to aunswere in his case,

  His iudgment publique, and his sentence past,

  The day of death set downe, the time, and place,

  And thus the lot of all his fortune cast,

  His hope so slowe, his end draw on so fast:

  With pen and ynke, his drooping spirit to wake,

  Now of the Queene his leaue he thus doth take.

  MOST mighty Empresse, daine thou to peruse

  These Swan-like Dirges of a dying man:

  Not like those Sonnets of my youthfull Muse,

  In that sweet season when our loue began,

  When at the Tylt thy princely gloue I wan:

  Whereas my thundring Courser forward set,

  Made fire to flie from Herfords Burgonet.

  Thys King which thus makes hast vnto my death,

  Madam, you know, I lou’d him as mine owne,

  And when I might haue grasped out his breath,

  I set him easely in his Fathers throne,

  And forc’d the rough stormes backe when they haue blowne;

  But these forgot, & all the rest forgiuen,

  Our thoughts must be continually on heauen.

  And for the Crowne whereon so much he stands,

  Came bastard William but himselfe on shore?