Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  That covered all with snow continually doth stand.

  I stinking Lerna hate, and the poore Libian sand.

  Marica that wise nymph, to whom great Neptune gave 45

  The charge of all his shores, from drowning them to save,

  Abideth with me still upon my service prest,

  And leaves the looser nymphs to wayt upon the rest:

  In summer giving earth, from which I sqare my peat,

  And faster feedings by, for deere, for horse, and neat. 50

  My various fleets for fowle, O who is he can tell,

  The species that in me for multitudes excell!

  The Duck, and Mallard first, the falconers onely sport,

  (Of river-flights the chiefe, so that all other sort,

  They onely greene-fowle tearme) in every mere abound, 55

  That you would thinke they sate upon the very ground,

  Their numbers be so great, the waters covering quite,

  That rais’d, the spacious ayre is darkened with their flight;

  Yet still the dangerous dykes, from shot doe them secure,

  Where they from flash to flash, like the full epicure 60

  Waft, as they lov’d to change their diet every meale;

  And neere to them ye see the lesser dibling Teale

  In bunches, with the first that flie from mere to mere,

  As they above the rest were lords of earth and ayre.

  The Gossander with them, my goodly fennes doe show 65

  His head as ebon blacke, the rest as white as snow,

  With whom the Widgeon goes, the Golden-Eye, the Smeath,

  And in odde scattred pits, the flags, and reeds beneath;

  The Coot, bald, else cleane black, that whitenesse it doth beare

  Upon the forehead star’d, the Water-Hen doth weare

  Upon her little tayle, in one small feather set. 71

  The Water-woosell next, all over black as jeat,

  With various colours, black, greene, blew, red, russet, white,

  Doe yeeld the gazing eye as variable delight,

  As doe those sundry fowles, whose severall plumes they be. 75

  The diving Dob-chick, here among the rest you see,

  Now up, now downe againe, that hard it is to proove,

  Whether under water most it liveth, or above:

  With which last little fowle, (that water may not lacke;

  More then the Dob-chick doth, and more doth love the brack) 80

  The Puffin we compare, which comming to the dish,

  Nice pallats hardly judge, if it be flesh or fish.

  But wherefore should I stand upon such toyes as these,

  That have so goodly fowles, the wandring eye to please.

  Here in my vaster pooles, as white as snow or milke,

  (In water blacke as Stix) swimmes the wild Swanne, the like, 86

  Of Hollanders so tearm’d, no niggard of his breath

  (As poets say of Swannes, which onely sing in death)

  But oft as other birds, is heard his tunes to roat,

  Which like a trumpet comes, from his long arched throat, 90

  And tow’rds this watry kind, about the flashes brimme,

  Some cloven-footed are, by nature not to swimme.

  There stalks the stately Crane, as though he march’d in warre,

  By him that hath the Heme, which (by the fishy carre)

  Can fetch with their long necks, out of the rush and reed, 95

  Snigs, fry, and yellow frogs, whereon they often feed:

  And under them againe, (that water never take,

  But by some ditches side, or little shallow lake

  Lye dabling night and day) the pallat-pleasing Snite,

  The Bidcocke, and like them the Redshanke, that delight 100

  Together still to be, in some small reedy bed,

  In which these little fowles in summer time were bred.

  The buzzing Bitter sits, which through his hollow bill,

  A sudden bellowing sends, which many times doth fill

  The neighbouring marsh with noyse, as though a bull did roare; 105

  But scarcely have I yet recited halfe my store:

  And with my wondrous flocks of Wild-geese come I then,

  Which looke as though alone they peopled all the fen,

  Which here in winter time, when all is overflow’d,

  And want of sollid sward inforceth them abroad, 110

  Th’abundance then is seene, that my full fennes doe yeeld,

  That almost through the isle, doe pester every field.

  The Barnacles with them, which wheresoere they breed,

  On trees, or rotten ships, yet to my fennes for feed

  Continually they come, and chiefe abode doe make,

  And very hardly forc’d my plenty to forsake: 116

  Who almost all this kind doe challenge as mine owne,

  Whose like I dare averre, is elsewhere hardly knowne.

  For sure unlesse in me, no one yet ever saw

  The multitudes of fowle, in mooting time they draw: 120

  From which to many a one, much profit doth accrue.

  Now such as flying feed, next these I must pursue;

  The Sea-meaw, Sea-pye, Gull, and Curlew heere doe keepe,

  As searching every shole, and watching every deepe.

  To find the floating fry, with their sharpe-pearcing sight, 125

  Which suddenly they take, by stouping from their height.

  The Cormorant then comes, (by his devouring kind)

  Which flying o’r the fen, imediatly doth find

  The fleet best stor’d of fish, when from his wings at full

  As though he shot himselfe into the thickned skull,

  He under water goes, and so the shoale pursues, 131

  Which into creeks doe flie, when quickly he doth chuse,

  The fin that likes him best, and rising, flying feeds.

  The Ospray oft here seene, though seldome here it breeds,

  Which over them the fish no sooner doe espie, 135

  But (betwixt him and them, by an antipathy)

  Turning their bellies up, as though their death they saw,

  They at his pleasure lye, to stuffe his glutt’nous maw.

  The toyling fisher here is tewing of his net:

  The fowler is imployd his lymed twigs to set. 140

  One underneath his horse, to get a shoot doth stalke;

  Another over dykes upon his stilts doth walke:

  There other with their spades, the peats are squaring out,

  And others from their carres, are busily about,

  To draw out sedge and reed, for thatch and stover fit,

  That whosoever would a landskip rightly hit. 146

  Beholding but my fennes, shall with more shapes be stor’d,

  Then Germany, or France, or Thuscan can afford:

  And for that part of me, which men high Holland call,

  Where Boston seated is, by plenteous Wythams fall,

  I peremptory am, large Neptunes liquid field, 151

  Doth to no other tract the like aboundance yeeld.

  For that of all the seas invironing this isle,

  Our Irish, Spanish, French, how e’r we them enstyle,

  The German is the great’st, and it is onely I, 155

  That doe upon the same with most advantage lye.

  What fish can any shore, or British sea-towne show,

  That’s eatable to us, that it doth not bestow

  Abundantly thereon? the Herring King of sea,

  The faster feeding Cod, the Mackrell brought by May, 160

  The daintie Sole, and Plaice, the Dabb, as of thenblood;

  The Conger finely sous’d, hote summers coolest food;

  The Whiting knowne to all a generall wholesome dish;

  The Gurnet, Rochet, Mayd, and Mullet, dainty fish;

  The Haddock, Turbet, Bert, fish nourishing and strong; 165

  The Thornback, and the Scate, pro
vocative among:

  The Weaver, which although his prickles venom bee,

  By fishers cut away, which buyers seldome see:

  Yet for the fish he beares, tis not accounted bad;

  The Sea-Flounder is here as common as the Shad;

  The Sturgeon cut to Keggs, (too big to handle whole)

  Gives many a dainty bit — out — of his lusty jole. 172

  Yet of rich Neptunes store, whilst thus I idely chat,

  Thinke not that all betwixt the Wherpoole, and the Sprat,

  I goe about to name, that were to take in hand, 175

  The atomy to tell, or to cast up the sand;

  But on the English coast, those most that usuall are,

  Wherewith the staules from thence doe furnish us for farre;

  Amongst whose sundry sorts, since thus farre I am in,

  Ile of our shell-fish speake, with these of scale and fin:

  The sperme-increasing Crab, much cooking that doth aske, 181

  The big-legg’d Lobster, fit for wanton Venus taske,

  Voluptuaries oft take rather then for food,

  And that the same effect which worketh in the blood

  The rough long Oyster is, much like the Lobster limb’d: 185

  The Oyster hote as they, the Mussle often trimd

  With orient pearle within, as thereby Nature show’d,

  That she some secret good had on that shell bestow’d:

  The Scallop cordiall judgd, the dainty Wilk and Limp,

  The Periwincle, Prawne, the Cockle, and the Shrimpe, 190

  For wanton womens tasts, pr for weake stomacks bought.

  When Kestiven this while that certainly had thought,

  Her tongue would ne’r have stopt, quoth shee, O how I hate,

  Thus of her foggy fennes, to heare rude Holland prate,

  That with her fish and fowle, here keepeth such a coyle, 195

  As her unwholesome ayre, and more unwholesome soyle,

  For these of which shee boasts, the more might suffred be;

  When those her feathered flocks she sends not out to me,

  Wherein cleare Witham they, and many a little brooke,

  (In which the sunne it selfe may well be proud to looke) 200

  Have made their flesh more sweet by my refined food,

  From that so ramish tast of her most fulsome mud,

  When the toyld cater home them to the kitchen brings,

  The cooke doth cast them out, as most unsavory things. 204

  Besides, what is she else, but a foule woosie marsh,

  And that shee calls her grasse, so blady is, and harsh,

  As cuts the cattels mouthes, constrain’d thereon to feed,

  So that my poorest trash, which mine call rush and reed,

  For litter scarcely fit, that to the dung I throw,

  Doth like the penny grasse, or the pure clover show,

  Compared with her best: and for her sundry fish, 211

  Of which she freely boasts, to furnish every dish.

  Did not full Neptunes fields so furnish her with store,

  Those in the ditches bred, within her muddy moore,

  Are of so earthy taste, as that the ravenous crow 215

  Will rather starve, thereon her stomack then bestow.

  From Stamford as along my tract tow’rd Lincolne straines,

  What shire is there can shew more valuable vaines

  Of soyle then is in mee? or where can there be found,

  So faire and fertile fields, or sheep-walks nere so sound? 220

  Where doth the pleasant ayre resent a sweeter breath?

  What countrey can produce a delicater heath,

  Then that which her faire name from Ancaster doth hold?

  Through all the neighboring shires, whose praise shall still be told,

  Which Flora in the spring doth with such wealth adorne, 225

  That Bever needs not much her company to scorne,

  Though shee a vale lye low, and this a heath sit hye.

  Yet doth she not alone, allure the wondring eye

  With prospect from each part, but that her pleasant ground

  Gives all that may content, the well-breath’d horse and hound: 230

  And from the Britans yet, to shew what then I was,

  One of the Roman wayes neere through my midst did passe:

  Besides to my much praise, there hath been in my mould

  Their painted pavements found, and armes of perfect gold.

  They neere the Saxons raigne, that in this tract did dwell, 235

  All other of this isle, for that they would excell

  For churches every where, so rich and goodly rear’d

  In every little dorpe, that after-times have fear’d

  T’attempt so mighty workes; yet one above the rest,

  In which it may be thought, they strove to doe their best, 240

  Of pleasant Grantham is, that piramis so hye,

  Rear’d (as it might be thought) to overtop the skie,

  The traveller that strikes into a wondrous maze,

  As on his horse he sits, on that proud height to gaze.

  When Wytham that this while a listning eare had laid, 245

  To hearken (for her selfe) what Kestiven had said,

  Much pleasd with this report, for that she was the earth

  From whom she onely had her sweet and seasoned birth,

  From Wytham which that name derived from her springs,

  Thus as she trips along, this dainty rivelet sings. 250

  Ye easie ambling streames, which way soe’r you runne,

  Or tow’rds the pleasant rise, or tow’rds the mid-day sunne:

  By which (as some suppose by use that have them tride)

  Your waters in their course are neatly purifi’d.

  Be what you are, or can, I not your beauties feare,

  When Neptune shall commaund the Naiades t’appeare. 256

  In river what is found in me that is not rare:

  Yet for my wel-fed Pykes, I am without compare.

  From Wytham mine owne towne, first watred with my sourse,

  As to the easterne sea, I hasten on my course. 260

  Who sees so pleasant plaines, or is of fairer seene,

  Whose swaines in shepheards gray, and gyrles in Lincolne greene?

  Whilst some the rings of bells, and some the bagpipes ply,

  Dance many a merry round, and many a hydegy.

  I envy, any brooke should in my pleasure share, 265

  Yet for my daintie Pykes, I am without compare.

  No land-floods can mee force to over-proud a height;

  Nor am I in my course, too crooked, or too streight:

  My depths fall by descents, too long, nor yet too broad,

  My foards with pebbles, cleare as orient pearles, are strowd; 270

  My gentle winding banks, with sundry flowers are drest,

  The higher rising heaths, hold distance with my brest.

  Thus to her proper song, the burthen still she bare;

  Yet for my dainty Pykes, I am without compare.

  By this to Lincolne com’n, upon whose loftie scite, 275

  Whilst wistly Wytham looks with wonderfull delight,

  Enamoured of the state, and beautie of the place,

  That her of all the rest especially doth grace,

  Leaving her former course, in which she first set forth,

  Which seemed to have been directly to the north: 280

  Shee runnes her silver front into the muddy fen,

  Which lyes into the east, in her deepe journey, when

  Cleare Ban a pretty brooke, from Lyndsey comming downe,

  Delicious Wytham leads to holy Botulphs towne, 284

  Where proudly she puts in amongst the great resort,

  That their appearance make in Neptunes watry court.

  Now Lyndsey all this while, that duely did attend,

  Till both her rivals thus had fully made an end

  Of their
so tedious talke, when lastly shee replyes;

  Loe, bravely here she sits, that both your states defies. 290

  Faire Lincolne is mine owne, which lies upon my south,

  As likewise to the north, great Humbers swelling mouth

  Encircles me, twixt which in length I bravely lye:

  O who can me the best, before them both deny?

  Nor Britaine in her bounds, scarce such a tract can show, 295

  Whose shore like to the backe of a well-bended bow,

  The ocean beareth out, and every where so thicke,

  The villages and dorps upon my bosome sticke,

  That it is very hard for any to define, 299

  Whether up-land most I be, or most am maratine.

  What is there that compleat can any country make,

  That in large measure I, (faire Lindsey) not pertake,

  As healthy heaths, and woods, faire dales, and pleasant hils,

  All watred here and there, with pretty creeping rills,

  Fat pasture, mellow gleabe, and of that kind what can, 305

  Give nourishment to beast, or benefit to man,

  As Kestiven doth boast, her Wytham so have I,

  My Ancum (onely mine) whose fame as farre doth flie,

  For fat and daintie Eeles, as hers doth for her Pyke,

  Which makes the proverbe up, the world hath not the like. 310

  From Razin her cleere springs, where first she doth arive,

  As in an even course, to Humber foorth doth drive,

  Faire Barton shee salutes, which from her scite outbraves

  Rough Humber, when he strives to shew his sternest waves.

  Now for my bounds to speake, few tracts (I thinke) there be, 315

  (And search through all this isle) to paralell with mee:

  Great Humber holds me north, (as I have said before)

  From whom (even) all along, upon the easterne shore,

  The German Ocean lyes; and on my southerne side,

  Cleere Wytham in her course, me fairely doth divide

  From Holland; and from thence the Fosdyke is my bound, 321

  Which our first Henry cut from Lincolne, where he found,

  Commodities by Trent, from Humber to convay:

  So Nature, the cleere Trent doth fortunatly lay,

  To ward me on the west, though farther I extend, 325

  And in my larger bounds doe largely comprehend

  Full Axholme, (which those neere, the fertile doe instile)

  Which Idle, Don, and Trent, imbracing make an isle.

  But wherefore of my bounds, thus onely doe I boast,

  When that which Holland seemes to vaunt her on the most, 330

  By me is overmatcht; the fowle which shee doth breed:

  Shee in her foggy fennes, so moorishly doth feed: