Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

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Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 149

by Michael Drayton


  To other ends my Elegie is squar’d.

  Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts

  That haue drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts, 10

  Of me get little, I am so much man,

  That let them doe their vtmost that they can,

  I will resist their forces: and they be

  Though great to others, yet not so to me.

  The first time I beheld you, I then sawe

  That (in it selfe) which had the power to drawe

  My stayd affection, and thought to allowe

  You some deale of my heart; but you have now

  Got farre into it, and you haue the skill

  (For ought I see) to winne vpon me still. 20

  When I doe thinke how brauely you haue borne

  Your many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,

  And how neglectfull you have seem’d to be,

  Of that which hath seem’d terrible to me,

  I thought you stupid, nor that you had felt

  Those griefes which (often) I haue scene to melt

  Another woman into sighes and teares,

  A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,

  But when in you I haue perceiu’d agen,

  (Noted by me, more then by other men) 30

  How feeling and how sensible you are

  Of your friends sorrowes, and with how much care

  You seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,

  That I your patience should so much misname,

  Which to my vnderstanding maketh knowne

  Who feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.

  When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,

  Are you the man that studied Seneca:

  Plinies most learned letters; and must I

  Read you a Lecture in Philosophie, 40

  T’auoid the afflictions that haue vs’d to reach you;

  I’le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.

  Of all your sex, yet neuer did I knowe,

  Any that yet so actually could showe

  Such rules for patience, such an easie way,

  That who so sees it, shall be forc’d to say,

  Loe what before seem’d hard to be discern’d,

  Is of this Lady, in an instant learn’d.

  It is heauens will that you should wronged be

  By the malicious, that the world might see 50

  Your Doue-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,

  The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,

  Your vertue then had perish’d, neuer priz’d,

  For that the same you had not exercised;

  And you had lost the Crowne you haue, and glory,

  Nor had you beene the subiect of my Story.

  Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,

  Their thoughts like Deuils them excruciate,

  Which by your noble suffrings doe torment

  Them with new paines, and giues you this content 60

  To see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,

  And vp to heauen before your eyes be offred:

  Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,

  When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted be

  Bent on some obiect, which is purely white,

  We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,

  And stands vntainted: but if it hath got

  Some little sully; or the least small spot,

  Then it soon fiers it; so you still remaine

  Free, because in you they can finde no staine. 70

  God doth not loue them least, on whom he layes

  The great’st afflictions; but that he will praise

  Himselfe most in them, and will make them fit,

  Near’st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:

  For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,

  Who are not his, vntill the world denies them.

  And your example may work such effect,

  That it may be the beginning of a Sect

  Of patient women; and that many a day

  All Husbands may for you their Founder pray. 80

  Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,

  In that I see you striue not to suppresse

  Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart

  Prepar’d to act so difficult a part,

  With vnremoued constancie is still

  The same it was, that of your proper ill,

  The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,

  Like some iust Prince, who to establish lawes,

  Suffers the breach at his best lou’d to strike,

  To learne the vulgar to endure the like. 90

  You are a Martir thus, nor can you be

  Lesse to the world so valued by me:

  If as you haue begun, you still perseuer

  Be euer good, that I may loue you euer.

  AN ELEGIE VPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY PENELOPE CLIFTON.

  Must I needes write, who’s hee that can refuse,

  He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,

  The thought of her doth heau’nly rage inspire,

  Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire.

  Since I knew ought time neuer did allowe

  Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;

  When France and England’s HENRIES dy’d, my quill,

  Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.

  ’Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,

  To obserue custome I vse not to praise; 10

  Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,

  On any one from whom she was descended;

  That for their fauour I this way should wooe,

  As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;

  I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,

  If by my freedome, I may giue her fame.

  Walking then forth being newly vp from bed,

  O Sir (quoth one) the Lady CLIFTON’S dead.

  When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,

  My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood. 20

  If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it

  (Quoth I) and com’st so coldly to expresse it.

  Thou shouldst haue giuen a shreeke, to make me feare thee;

  That might haue slaine what euer had beene neere thee.

  Thou shouldst haue com’n like Time with thy scalpe bare,

  And in thy hands thou shouldst haue brought thy haire,

  Casting vpon me such a dreadfull looke,

  As seene a spirit, or th’adst beene thunder-strooke,

  And gazing on me so a little space,

  Thou shouldst haue shot thine eye balls in my face, 30

  Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst haue said,

  O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.

  With this ill newes amaz’d by chance I past,

  By that neere Groue, whereas both first and last,

  I saw her, not three moneths before shee di’d.

  When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,

  And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,

  Besides aduis’d me well,) I durst haue sworne

  The lingring yeare, the Autumne had adiourn’d,

  And the fresh Spring had beene againe return’d, 40

  Her delicacie, louelinesse, and grace,

  With such a Summer brauery deckt the place:

  But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;

  And where she stood, the fading leaues were shed,

  Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,

  O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.

  And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,

  That I to her by prouidence was brought.

  For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,

  Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that I 50

  Should sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,

  That h
eauen did thinke her worthy of a Poet;

  My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,

  For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.

  A thousand silken Puppets should haue died,

  And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,

  Ere in my lines, you of their names should heare

  To tell the world that such there euer were,

  Whose memory shall from the earth decay,

  Before those Rags be worne they gaue away: 60

  Had I her god-like features neuer seene,

  Poore slight Report had tolde me she had beene

  A hansome Lady, comely, very well,

  And so might I haue died an Infidell,

  As many doe which neuer did her see,

  Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.

  Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefers

  To goe beyond all our Cosmographers,

  By Charts and Maps exactly that haue showne,

  All of this earth that euer can be knowne, 70

  For that she would beyond them all descrie

  What Art could not by any mortall eye;

  A Map of heauen in her rare features drue,

  And that she did so liuely and so true,

  That any soule but seeing it might sweare

  That all was perfect heauenly that was there.

  If euer any Painter were so blest,

  To drawe that face, which so much heau’n exprest,

  If in his best of skill he did her right,

  I wish it neuer may come in my sight, 80

  I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest I

  Should to that face commit Idolatry.

  Death might haue tyth’d her sex, but for this one,

  Nay, haue ta’n halfe to haue let her alone;

  Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,

  Cyment them vp with sluttish Mercury,

  Such as vndrest were able to affright,

  A valiant man approching him by night;

  Death might haue taken such, her end deferd,

  Vntill the time she had beene climaterd; 90

  When she would haue bin at threescore yeares and three,

  Such as our best at three and twenty be,

  With enuie then, he might haue ouerthrowne her,

  When age nor time had power to ceaze vpon her.

  But when the vnpittying Fates her end decreed,

  They to the same did instantly proceed,

  For well they knew (if she had languish’d so)

  As those which hence by naturall causes goe,

  So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,

  As certainly their Iron lawes had broken, 100

  And had wak’d heau’n, who clearely would haue show’d

  That change of Kingdomes to her death it ow’d;

  And that the world still of her end might thinke,

  It would haue let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke.

  Or the vast Sea it in on vs to cast,

  As Seuerne did about some fiue yeares past:

  Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,

  Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.

  Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,

  That now I raue, and am growne lunatique: 110

  You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,

  ’Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.

  I charge you in her name that now is gone,

  That may coniure you, if you be not stone,

  That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,

  Vpon that day wherein you shall read mine.

  Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,

  And will but sit like mothes vpon her herse;

  Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,

  Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage, 120

  In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,

  Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,

  The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,

  And nothing of her funerall to lacke,

  And when this period giues you leaue to pause,

  Cast vp your eyes, and sigh for my applause.

  VPON THE NOBLE LADY ASTONS DEPARTURE FOR SPAINE.

  I Many a time haue greatly marueil’d why,

  Men say their friends depart when as they die,

  How well that word, a dying doth expresse,

  I did not know (I truely must confesse,)

  Till her departure, for whose missed sight,

  I am enforc’d this Elegie to write:

  But since resistlesse fate will haue it so,

  That she from hence must to Iberia goe,

  And my weake wishes can her not detaine,

  I will of heauen in policy complaine,

  That it so long her trauell should adiourne,

  Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.

  Can those of Norway for their wage procure,

  By their blacke spells a winde that shall endure

  Till from aboard the wished land men see,

  And fetch the harbour, where they long to •e,

  Can they by charmes doe this, and cannot I

  Who am the Priest of Phaebus, and so hie;

  Sit in his fauour, win the Poets god,

  To send swift Hermes with a snaky rod,

  To Aeolus Caue, commanding him with care,

  His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,

  And from that houre, wherein she rakes the seas,

  Nature bring on the quiet Halcion dayes,

  And in that hower that bird begin her nest,

  Nay at that very instant, that long rest

  May seize on Neptune, who may still repose,

  And let that bird nere till that houre disclose,

  Wherein she landeth, and for all that space

  Be not a wrinckle seene on Thetis face,

  Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,

  As by the easie swelling of her saile,

  May at Sebastians safely set her downe

  Where with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.

  If heauen in iustice would haue plagu’d by thee

  Some Pirate, and grim Neptune thou should’st be

  His Executioner, or what is worse,

  The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curse

  Of this braue Iland; let them for her sake,

  Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,

  Escape vndrown’d, vnwrackt, nay rather let

  Them be at case in some safe harbour set,

  Wher with much profit they may vent their wealth

  That they haue got by vi•lany and stealth,

  Rather, great Neptune, then when thou dost raue,

  Thou once should st•wet her saile but with a waue.

  Or if some proling Rouer shall but dare,

  To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,

  Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,

  And tell those Sea-thieues, that once such they were,

  As they are now, till they assaild to rape;

  Grape▪ crowned Bacchus in a striplings shape,

  That came aboard them, and would faine haue sayld,

  To vine spread Naxus, but that him they faild▪

  Which he perceiuing, them so monstrous made,

  And warne them how they passengers inuade.

  Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blow

  Atumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,

  Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,

  And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,

  But Boreas and ye Esterne windes arise;

  To send her soone to Spaine, but be precise,

  That in your ayde you seeme not still so sterne,

  As we a Summer should no more discerne,

  For till that here againe, I may her see,

  It will be winter all the yeare with me.

  Yee swan-begotten louely br
other stars,

  So oft auspicious to poore Marriners,

  Yee twin-bred lights of louely Leda’s brood,

  Ioues egge-borne issue smile vpon the flood,

  And in your mild’st aspect doe ye appeare

  To be her warrant from all future feare.

  And if thou ship that bear’st her, doe proue good,

  May neuer time but wormes consume thy wood

  Nor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,

  Till they for reliques be in Temples plac’t;

  Mayst thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,

  Wherein iust Noah did all the world imbarque,

  With that which after Troyes so famous wracke,

  From ten yeeres trauell brought Vlisses backe:

  That Argo which to Colchos went from Greece,

  And in her bottom brought the Golden Fleece,

  Vnder braue Iason; or that same of Drake,

  Wherein he did his famous voyage make

  About the World, or Candishes that went

  As farre as his about the Continent.

  And ye milde windes that now I doe implore,

  Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,

  Nor once on forfeit of your selues respire:

  When once the time is come of her retire,

  If then it please you, but to doe your due,

  What for those Winds I did, Ile doe for you:

  Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,

  My pen shall proue you to haue dietyes,

  Ile sing your loues in verses that shall flo•,

  And tell the stories of your weale and woe,

  Ile proue what profit to the earth you bring,

  And how t’is you that welcome in the spring,

  Ile raise vp altars to you, as to show,

  The time shalbe kept holy, when you blow,

  O blessed winds! your will that it may be,

  To send health to her, and her home to me.

  TO MY MOST DEARELY-LOUED FRIEND HENRY REYNOLDS ESQUIRE OF POETS AND POESIE.

  My dearely loued friend how oft haue we,

  In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)

  To some well-chosen place vs’d to retire;

  And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,

  Haue past the howres contentedly with chat,

  Now talk of this, and then discours’d of that,

  Spoke our owne verses ‘twixt our selves, if not

  Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,

  Or some Stage pieces famous long before,

  Of which your happy memory had store; 10

  And I remember you much pleased were,

  Of those who liued long agoe to heare,

  As well as of those, of these latter times,

  Who have inricht our language with their rimes,

 

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