Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  Sonet 25

  O why should nature nigardly restraine,

  The Sotherne Nations relish not our tongue,

  Else should my lines glide on the waues of Rhene,

  And crowne the Pirens with my liuing song;

  But bounded thus to Scotland get you forth:

  Thence take you wing vnto the Orcades,

  There let my verse get glory in the North,

  Making my sighs to thawe the frozen seas,

  And let the Bards within the Irish Ile,

  To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall passe,

  Call backe the stifneckd rebels from exile,

  And molifie the slaughtering Galliglasse:

  And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,

  Let Wolues and Bears be charmed with my verse.

  Sonet 27

  I gaue my faith to Loue, Loue his to mee,

  That hee and I, sworne brothers should remaine,

  Thus fayth receiu’d, fayth giuen back againe,

  Who would imagine bond more sure could be?

  Loue flies to her, yet holds he my fayth taken,

  Thus from my vertue raiseth my offence,

  Making me guilty by mine innocence;

  And surer bond by beeing so forsaken,

  He makes her aske what I before had vow’d,

  Giuing her that, which he had giuen me,

  I bound by him, and he by her made free,

  Who euer so hard breach of fayth alow’d?

  Speake you that should of right and wrong discusse,

  Was right ere wrong’d, or wrong ere righted thus?

  Sonet 29

  To the Sences

  When conquering loue did first my hart assaile,

  Vnto mine ayde I summond euery sence,

  Doubting if that proude tyrant should preuaile,

  My hart should suffer for mine eyes offence;

  But he with beauty, first corrupted sight,

  My hearing bryb’d with her tongues harmony,

  My taste, by her sweet lips drawne with delight,

  My smelling wonne with her breaths spicerie;

  But when my touching came to play his part,

  (The King of sences, greater than the rest)

  That yeelds loue up the keyes vnto my hart,

  And tells the other how they should be blest;

  And thus by those of whom I hop’d for ayde,

  To cruell Loue my soule was first betrayd.

  Sonet 30

  To the Vestalls

  Those Priests, which first the Vestall fire begun,

  Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame,

  Deuisd a vessell to receiue the sunne,

  Beeing stedfastly opposed to the same;

  Where with sweet wood laid curiously by Art,

  Whereon the sunne might by reflection beate,

  Receiuing strength from euery secret part,

  The fuell kindled with celestiall heate.

  Thy blessed eyes, the sunne which lights this fire,

  My holy thoughts, they be the Vestall flame,

  The precious odors be my chast desire,

  My breast the fuell which includes the same;

  Thou art my Vesta, thou my Goddesse art,

  Thy hollowed Temple, onely is my hart.

  Sonet 31

  Me thinks I see some crooked Mimick ieere

  And taxe my Muse with this fantastick grace,

  Turning my papers, asks what haue we heere?

  Making withall, some filthy anticke face;

  I feare no censure, nor what thou canst say,

  Nor shall my spirit one iote of vigor lose,

  Think’st thou my wit shall keepe the pack-horse way,

  That euery dudgen low inuention goes?

  Since Sonnets thus in bundles are imprest,

  And euery drudge doth dull our satiate eare,

  Think’st thou my loue, shall in those rags be drest

  That euery dowdie, euery trull doth weare?

  Vnto my pitch no common iudgement flies,

  I scorne all earthlie dung-bred scarabies.

  Sonet 34

  To Admiration

  Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,

  Rauish’d a world beyond the farthest thought,

  That knowing more then euer hath beene taught,

  That I am onely staru’d in my desire;

  Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,

  Ayming at things exceeding all perfection,

  To wisedoms selfe, to minister direction,

  That I am onely staru’d in my desire;

  Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,

  Though my conceite I farther seeme to bend,

  Then possibly inuention can extend,

  And yet am onely staru’d in my desire;

  If thou wilt wonder, heers the wonder loue,

  That this to mee doth yet no wonder proue.

  Sonet 43

  Whilst thus my pen striues to eternize thee,

  Age rules my lines with wrincles in my face,

  Where in the Map of all my misery,

  Is modeld out the world of my disgrace,

  Whilst in despight of tyrannizing times,

  Medea like I make thee young againe,

  Proudly thou scorn’st my world-outwearing rimes,

  And murther’st vertue with thy coy disdaine;

  And though in youth, my youth vntimely perrish,

  To keepe thee from obliuion and the graue,

  Ensuing ages yet my rimes shall cherrish,

  Where I entomb’d, my better part shall saue;

  And though this earthly body fade and die

  My name shall mount vpon eternitie.

  Sonet 44

  Muses which sadly sit about my chayre,

  Drownd in the teares extorted by my lines,

  With heauy sighs whilst thus I breake the ayre,

  Paynting my passions in these sad dissignes,

  Since she disdaines to blesse my happy verse,

  The strong built Trophies to her liuing fame,

  Euer hence-forth my bosome be your hearse,

  Wherein the world shal now entombe her name,

  Enclose my musick you poor sencelesse walls,

  Sith she is deafe and will not heare my mones,

  Soften your selues with euery teare that falls,

  Whilst I like Orpheus sing to trees and stones:

  Which with my plaints seeme yet with pitty moued,

  Kinder then she who I so long haue loued.

  Sonet 45

  Thou leaden braine, which censur’st what I write,

  And say’st my lines be dull and doe not moue,

  I meruaile not thou feelst not my delight,

  Which neuer felt my fiery tuch of loue.

  But thou whose pen hath like a Pack-horse seru’d,

  Whose stomack vnto gaule hath turn’d thy foode,

  Whose sences like poore prisoners hunger-staru’d,

  Whose griefe hath parch’d thy body, dry’d thy blood.

  Thou which hast scorned life, and hated death,

  And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry,

  Thou which hast band thy thoughts and curst thy breath,

  With thousand plagues more then in purgatory.

  Thou thus whose spirit Loue in his fire refines,

  Come thou and reade, admire, applaud my lines.

  Sonet 55

  Truce gentle loue, a parly now I craue,

  Me thinks, ’tis long since first these wars begun,

  Nor thou nor I, the better yet can haue:

  Bad is the match where neither party wone.

  I offer free conditions of faire peace,

  My hart for hostage, that it shall remaine,

  Discharge our forces heere, let malice cease,

  So for my pledge, thou giue me pledge againe.

  Or if nothing but death will serue thy turne,

  Still thirsting for subu
ersion of my state;

  Doe what thou canst, raze, massacre, and burne,

  Let the world see the vtmost of thy hate:

  I send defiance, since if ouerthrowne,

  Thou vanquishing, the conquest is mine owne.

  Sonet 56

  A Consonet

  Eyes with your teares, blind if you bee,

  Why haue these teares such eyes to see,

  Poore eyes, if yours teares cannot moue,

  My teares, eyes, then must mone my loue,

  Then eyes, since you haue lost your sight,

  Weepe still, and teares shall lend you light,

  Till both desolu’d, and both want might.

  No, no, cleere eyes, you are not blind,

  But in my teares discerne my mind:

  Teares be the language which you speake,

  Which my hart wanting, yet must breake;

  My tongue must cease to tell my wrongs,

  And make my sighs to get them tongs,

  Yet more then this to her belongs.

  Sonet 57

  To Lucie Countesse of Bedford

  Great Lady, essence of my chiefest good,

  Of the most pure and finest tempred spirit,

  Adorn’d with gifts, enobled by thy blood,

  Which by discent true vertue do’st inherit:

  That vertue which no fortune can depriue,

  Which thou by birth tak’st from thy gracious mother,

  Whose royall minds with equall motion striue,

  Which most in honour shall excell the other;

  Vnto thy fame my Muse herself shall taske,

  Which rain’st vpon me thy sweet golden showers,

  And but thy selfe, no subject will I aske,

  Vpon whose praise my soule shall spend her powers.

  Sweet Lady yet, grace this poore Muse of mine,

  Whose faith, whose zeale, whose life, whose all is thine.

  Sonet 58

  To the Lady Anne Harington

  Madam, my words cannot expresse my mind,

  My zealous kindnes to make knowne to you,

  When your desarts all seuerally I find;

  In this attempt of me doe claim their due,

  Your gracious kindnes that doth claime my hart;

  Your bounty bids my hand to make it knowne,

  Of me your vertues each doe claime a part,

  And leaue me thus the least part of mine owne.

  What should commend your modesty and wit,

  Is by your wit and modesty commended

  And standeth dumbe, in much admiring it,

  And where it should begin, it there is ended;

  Returning this your prayses onely due,

  And to your selfe say you are onely you.

  SONNETS, 1602

  Sonnet 12

  To Lunacie

  As other men, so I my selfe doe muse,

  Why in this sort I wrest Inuention so,

  And why these giddy metaphors I vse,

  Leauing the path the greater part doe goe;

  I will resolue you; I am lunaticke,

  And euer this in mad men you shall finde,

  What they last thought on when the braine grew sick,

  In most distraction keepe that still in minde.

  Thus talking idely in this bedlam fit,

  Reason and I, (you must conceiue) are twaine,

  ’Tis nine yeeres, now, since first I lost my wit

  Beare with me, then, though troubled be my braine;

  With diet and correction, men distraught,

  (Not too farre past) may to their wits be brought.

  Sonnet 17

  If hee from heauen that filch’d that liuing fire,

  Condemn’d by Ioue to endlesse torment be,

  I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,

  That farre beyond Promethius did aspire?

  The fire he stole, although of heauenly kinde,

  Which from aboue he craftily did take,

  Of liueles clods vs liuing men to make,

  Againe bestow’d in temper of the mind.

  But you broke in to heauens immortall store,

  Where vertue, honour, wit, and beautie lay,

  Which taking thence, you haue escap’d away,

  Yet stand as free as ere you did before.

  But old Promethius punish’d for his rape,

  Thus poore theeues suffer, when the greater scape.

  Sonnet 25

  To Folly

  With fooles and children good discretion beares,

  Then honest people beare with Loue and me,

  Nor older yet, nor wiser made by yeeres,

  Amongst the rest of fooles and children be;

  Loues still a Baby, playes with gaudes and toyes,

  And like a wanton sports with euery feather,

  And Idiots still are running after boyes,

  Then fooles and children fitt’st to goe together;

  He still as young as when he first was borne,

  No wiser I, then when as young as he,

  You that behold vs, laugh vs not to scorne,

  Giue Nature thanks, you are not such as we;

  Yet fooles and children sometimes tell in play,

  Some wise in showe, more fooles in deede, then they.

  Sonnet 27

  I heare some say, this man is not in loue,

  Who, can he loue? a likely thing they say:

  Reade but his verse, and it will easily proue;

  O iudge not rashly (gentle Sir) I pray,

  Because I loosely tryfle in this sort,

  As one that faine his sorrowes would beguile:

  You now suppose me, all this time in sport,

  And please your selfe with this conceit the while.

  You shallow censures; sometime see you not

  In greatest perills some men pleasant be,

  Where fame by death is onely to be got,

  They resolute, so stands the case with me;

  Where other men, in depth of passion cry,

  I laugh at fortune, as in iest to die.

  Sonnet 31

  To such as say thy loue I ouer-prize,

  And doe not sticke to terme my praises folly,

  Against these folkes that think them selues so wise,

  I thus appose my force of reason wholly,

  Though I giue more, then well affords my state,

  In which expense the most suppose me vaine,

  Would yeeld them nothing at the easiest rate,

  Yet at this price, returnes me treble gaine,

  They value not, vnskilfull how to vse,

  And I giue much, because I gaine thereby,

  I that thus take, or they that thus refuse,

  Whether are these deccaued then, or I?

  In euery thing I hold this maxim still,

  The circumstance doth make it good or ill.

  Sonnet 41

  Deare, why should you commaund me to my rest

  When now the night doth summon all to sleepe?

  Me thinks this time becommeth louers best,

  Night was ordained together friends to keepe.

  How happy are all other liuing things,

  Which though the day disioyne by seuerall flight,

  The quiet euening yet together brings,

  And each returnes vnto his loue at night.

  O thou that art so curteous vnto all,

  Why shouldst thou Night abuse me onely thus,

  That euery creature to his kinde doost call,

  And yet tis thou doost onely seuer vs.

  Well could I wish it would be euer day,

  If when night comes you bid me goe away.

  Sonnet 58

  To Prouerbe

  As Loue and I, late harbour’d in one Inne,

  With Prouerbs thus each other intertaine;

  In loue there is no lacke, thus I beginne?

  Faire words makes fooles, replieth he againe?

  That spares to speake, doth spare to sp
eed (quoth I)

  As well (saith he) too forward as too slow.

  Fortune assists the boldest, I replie?

  A hasty man (quoth he) nere wanted woe.

  Labour is light, where loue (quoth I) doth pay,

  (Saith he) light burthens heauy, if farre borne?

  (Quoth I) the maine lost, cast the by away:

  You haue spunne a faire thred, he replies in scorne.

  And hauing thus a while each other thwarted,

  Fooles as we met, so fooles againe we parted.

  Sonnet 63

  To the high and mighty Prince, James, King of Scots

  Not thy graue Counsells, nor thy Subiects loue,

  Nor all that famous Scottish royaltie,

  Or what thy soueraigne greatnes may approue,

  Others in vaine doe but historifie,

  When thine owne glorie from thy selfe doth spring,

  As though thou did’st, all meaner prayses scorne:

  Of Kings a Poet, and the Poets King,

  They Princes, but thou Prophets do’st adorne;

  Whilst others by their Empires are renown’d,

  Thou do’st enrich thy Scotland with renowne,

  And Kings can but with Diadems be crown’d,

  But with thy Laurell, thou doo’st crowne thy Crowne;

  That they whose pens, euen life to Kings doe giue,

  In thee a King, shall seeke them selues to liue.

  Sonnet 66

  To the Lady L.S.

  Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit,

  A thousand Nimph-like and enamoured Graces,

  The Goddesses of memory and wit,

  Which in due order take their seuerall places,

  In whose deare bosome, sweet delicious loue,

  Layes downe his quiuer, that he once did beare,

  Since he that blessed Paradice did proue,

  Forsooke his mothers lap to sport him there.

  Let others striue to entertaine with words,

  My soule is of another temper made;

  I hold it vile that vulgar wit affords,

  Deuouring time my faith, shall not inuade:

  Still let my praise be honoured thus by you,