Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.

  SONNETS, 1605

  Sonnet 43

  Why should your faire eyes with such soueraine grace,

  Dispearse their raies on euery vulgar spirit,

  Whilst I in darknes in the selfesame place,

  Get not one glance to recompence my merit:

  So doth the plow-man gaze the wandring starre,

  And onely rests contented with the light,

  That neuer learnd what constellations are,

  Beyond the bent of his vnknowing sight.

  O why should beautie (custome to obey)

  To their grosse sence applie her selfe so ill?

  Would God I were as ignorant as they

  When I am made vnhappy by my skill;

  Onely compeld on this poore good to boast,

  Heauens are not kind to them that know them most.

  Sonnet 46

  Plain-path’d Experience the vnlearneds guide,

  Her simple followers euidently shewes,

  Sometime what schoolemen scarcely can decide,

  Nor yet wise Reason absolutely knowes:

  In making triall of a murther wrought,

  If the vile actor of the heinous deede,

  Neere the dead bodie happily be brought,

  Oft hath been prou’d the breathlesse coarse will bleed;

  She comming neere that my poore hart hath slaine,

  Long since departed, (to the world no more)

  The auncient wounds no longer can containe,

  But fall to bleeding as they did before:

  But what of this? should she to death be led,

  It furthers iustice, but helpes not the dead.

  Sonnet 47

  In pride of wit, when high desire of fame

  Gaue life and courage to my labouring pen,

  And first the sound and vertue of my name,

  Won grace and credit in the eares of men:

  With those the thronged Theaters that presse,

  I in the circuite for the Lawrell stroue,

  Where the full praise I freely must confesse,

  In heate of blood a modest minde might moue:

  With showts and daps at euerie little pawse,

  When the prowd round on euerie side hath rung,

  Sadly I sit vnmou’d with the applawse,

  As though to me it nothing did belong:

  No publique glorie vainely I pursue,

  The praise I striue, is to eternize you.

  Sonnet 50

  As in some Countries far remote from hence,

  The wretched creature destined to die,

  Hauing the iudgement due to his offence,

  By Surgeons begg’d, their Art on him to trie:

  Which on the liuing worke without remorce,

  First make incision on each maistring vaine,

  Then stanch the bleeding, then transperce the coarse,

  And with their balmes recure the wounds againe,

  Then poison and with Phisicke him restore,

  Not that they feare the hopelesse man to kill,

  But their experience to encrease the more;

  Euen so my Mistresse works vpon my ill,

  By curing me, and killing me each howre,

  Onely to shew her beauties soueraigne powre.

  Sonnet 51

  Calling to minde since first my loue begunne,

  Th’ incertaine times oft varying in their course,

  How things still vnexpectedly haue runne,

  As please the fates, by their resistlesse force:

  Lastly, mine eyes amazedly haue scene,

  Essex great fall, Tyrone his peace to gaine,

  The quiet end of that long-liuing Queene,

  This Kings faire entrance, and our peace with Spaine,

  We and the Dutch at length our selues to seuer.

  Thus the world doth, and euermore shall reele,

  Yet to my goddesse am I constant euer;

  How ere blind fortune turne her giddy wheele:

  Though heauen and earth proue both to mee vntrue,

  Yet am I still inuiolate to you.

  Sonnet 57

  You best discern’d of my interior eies,

  And yet your graces outwardly diuine,

  Whose deare remembrance in my bosome lies,

  Too riche a relique for so poore a shrine:

  You in whome Nature chose herselfe to view,

  When she her owne perfection would admire,

  Bestowing all her excellence on you;

  At whose pure eies Loue lights his halowed fire,

  Euen as a man that in some traunce hath scene,

  More than his wondring vttrance can vnfolde,

  That rapt in spirite in better worlds hath beene,

  So must your praise distractedly be tolde;

  Most of all short, when I should shew you most,

  In your perfections altogether lost.

  Sonnet 58

  In former times, such as had store of coyne,

  In warres at home, or when for conquests bound,

  For feare that some their treasures should purloyne,

  Gaue it to keepe to spirites within the ground;

  And to attend it, them so strongly tide,

  Till they return’d, home when they neuer came,

  Such as by art to get the same haue tride,

  From the strong spirits by no means get the same,

  Neerer you come, that further flies away,

  Striuing to holde it strongly in the deepe:

  Euen as this spirit, so she alone doth play,

  With those rich Beauties heauen giues her to keepe:

  Pitty so left, to coldenes of her blood,

  Not to auaile her, nor do others good.

  To Sir Walter Aston, Knight of the honourable order of the Bath, and my most worthy Patron

  I will not striue m’ inuention to inforce,

  With needlesse words your eyes to entertaine,

  T’ obserue the formall ordinarie course

  That euerie one so vulgarly doth faine:

  Our interchanged and deliberate choise,

  Is with more firme and true election sorted,

  Then stands in censure of the common voice.

  That with light humor fondly is transported:

  Nor take I patterne of another’s praise,

  Then what my pen may constantly avow.

  Nor walke more publique nor obscurer waies

  Then vertue bids, and iudgement will allow;

  So shall my tone, and best endeuours serue you,

  And still shall studie, still so to deserue you.

  Michaell Drayton.

  SONNETS, 1619

  SONNET 1

  Like an aduenturous Sea-farer am I,

  Who hath some long and dang’rous Voyage beene,

  And call’d to tell of his Discouerie,

  How farre he sayl’d, what Countries he had seene,

  Proceeding from the Port whence he put forth,

  Shewes by his Compasse, how his Course he steer’d,

  When East, when West, when South, and when by North,

  As how the Pole to eu’ry place was rear’d,

  What Capes he doubled, of what Continent,

  The Gulphes and Straits, that strangely he had past,

  Where most becalm’d, wherewith foule Weather spent,

  And on what Rocks in perill to be cast?

  Thus in my Loue, Time calls me to relate

  My tedious Trauels, and oft-varying Fate.

  SONNET 6

  How many paltry, foolish, painted things,

  That now in Coaches trouble eu’ry Street,

  Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings,

  Ere they be well wrap’d in their winding Sheet?

  Where I to thee Eternitie shall giue,

  When nothing else remayneth of these dayes,

  And Queenes hereafter shall be glad to liue

  Vpon the Almes of thy su
perfluous prayse;

  Virgins and Matrons reading these my Rimes,

  Shall be so much delighted with thy story,

  That they shall grieve, they liu’d not in these Times,

  To haue seene thee, their Sexes onely glory:

  So shalt thou flye aboue the vulgar Throng,

  Still to suruiue in my immortall Song.

  SONNET 8

  There’s nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste,

  That in my dayes I may not see thee old,

  That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac’d,

  Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold.

  That louely, arched, yuorie, pollish’d Brow,

  Defac’d with Wrinkles, that I might but see;

  Thy daintie Hayre, so curl’d, and crisped now,

  Like grizzled Mosse vpon some aged Tree;

  Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane,

  Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne,

  Thy Pearly teeth out of thy head so cleane,

  That when thou feed’st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne:

  These Lines that now thou scorn’st, which should delight thee,

  Then would I make thee read, but to despight thee.

  His Remedie for Loue

  Since to obtaine thee, nothing me will sted,

  I haue a Med’cine that shall cure my Loue,

  The powder of her Heart dry’d, when she is dead,

  That Gold nor Honour ne’r had power to moue;

  Mix’d with her Teares, that ne’r her true-Loue crost,

  Nor at Fifteene ne’r long’d to be a Bride,

  Boyl’d with her Sighes, in giuing vp the Ghost,

  That for her late deceased Husband dy’d;

  Into the same then let a Woman breathe,

  That being chid, did neuer word replie,

  With one thrice-marry’d’s Pray’rs, that did bequeath

  A Legacie to stale Virginitie.

  If this Receit haue not the pow’r to winne me,

  Little Ile say, but thinke the Deuill’s in me.

  SONNET 21

  A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo’d,

  (Yet his dull Spirit her not one iot could moue)

  Intreated me, as e’r I wish’d his good,

  To write him but one Sonnet to his Loue:

  When I, as fast as e’r my Penne could trot,

  Powr’d out what first from quicke Inuention came;

  Nor neuer stood one word thereof to blot,

  Much like his Wit, that was to vse the same:

  But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,

  Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure.

  But soe, for you to Heau’n for Phraze I runne,

  And ransacke all APOLLO’S golden Treasure;

  Yet by my Troth, this Foole his Loue obtaines,

  And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines.

  SONNET 27

  Is not Loue here, as ’tis in other Clymes,

  And diff’reth it, as doe the seu’rall Nations?

  Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,

  Or in this land alt’reth with the Fashions?

  Or haue our Passions lesser pow’r then theirs,

  Who had lesse Art them liuely to expresse?

  Is Nature growne lesse pow’rfull in their Heires,

  Or in our Fathers did the more transgresse?

  I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true,

  As any Mans, that Memory can boast,

  And my Respects and Seruices to you

  Equall with his, that loues his Mistris most:

  Or Nature must be partiall in my Cause,

  Or onely you doe violate her Lawes.

  SONNET 36

  Cupid coniured

  Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slacke

  To wound her Heart, whose Eyes haue wounded me,

  And suff’red her to glory in my Wracke,

  Thus to my aid, I lastly coniure thee;

  By Hellish Styx (by which the THUND’RER sweares)

  By thy faire Mothers vnauoided Power,

  By HECAT’S Names, by PROSERPINE’S sad Teares,

  When she was rapt to the infernall Bower,

  By thine own loued PSYCHES, by the Fires

  Spent on thine Altars, flaming vp to Heau’n;

  By all the Louers Sighes, Vowes, and Desires,

  By all the Wounds that euer thou hast giu’n;

  I coniure thee by all that I haue nam’d,

  To make her loue, or CUPID be thou damn’d.

  SONNET 48

  Cupid, I hate thee, which I’de haue thee know,

  A naked Starueling euer may’st thou be,

  Poore Rogue, goe pawne thy Fascia and thy Bow,

  For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee;

  Or if thou’lt not, thy Archerie forbeare,

  To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre,

  And when Corne’s sowne, or growne into the Eare,

  Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper;

  Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade)

  Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy;

  They that are blind, are Minstrels often made,

  So may’st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy:

  That whilst with MARS she holdeth her old way,

  Thou, her Blind Sonne, may’st sit by them, and play.

  SONNET 52

  What dost thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart,

  To take all Mine, and giue me none againe?

  Or haue thine Eyes such Magike, or that Art,

  That what They get, They euer doe retaine?

  Play not the Tyrant, but take some Remorse,

  Rebate thy Spleene, if but for Pitties sake;

  Or Cruell, if thou can’st not; let vs scorse,

  And for one Piece of Thine, my whole heart take.

  But what of Pitty doe I speake to Thee,

  Whose Brest is proofe against Complaint or Prayer?

  Or can I thinke what my Reward shall be

  From that proud Beauty, which was my betrayer?

  What talke I of a Heart, when thou hast none?

  Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one.

  SONNET 61

  Since there ‘s no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part,

  Nay, I haue done: You get no more of Me,

  And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,

  That thus so cleanly, I my Selfe can free,

  Shake hands for euer, Cancell all our Vowes,

  And when we meet at any time againe,

  Be it not scene in either of our Browes,

  That We one iot of former Loue reteyne;

  Now at the last gaspe of Loues latest Breath,

  When his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse lies,

  When Faith is kneeling by his bed of Death,

  And Innocence is closing vp his Eyes,

  Now if thou would’st, when all haue giuen him ouer,

  From Death to Life, thou might’st him yet recouer.

  ODES, 1619

  TO HIMSELFE AND THE HARPE

  And why not I, as hee

  That’s greatest, if as free,

  (In sundry strains that striue,

  Since there so many be)

  Th’ old Lyrick kind reuiue?

  I will, yea, and I may;

  Who shall oppose my way?

  For what is he alone,

  That of himselfe can say,

  Hee’s Heire of Helicon? 10

  APOLLO, and the Nine,

  Forbid no Man their Shrine,

  That commeth with hands pure;

  Else be they so diuine,

  They will not him indure.

  For they be such coy Things,

  That they care not for Kings,

  And dare let them know it;

  Nor may he touch their Springs,

  That is not borne a Poet. 20

  The Phocean it did proue

 
; The Phocean it did proue,

  Whom when foule Lust did moue,

  Those Mayds vnchast to make,

  Fell, as with them he stroue,

  His Neck and iustly brake.

  That instrument ne’r heard,

  Strooke by the skilfull Bard,

  It strongly to awake;

  But it th’ infernalls skard,

  And made Olympus quake.

  As those Prophetike strings

  Whose sounds with fiery Wings,

  Draue Fiends from their abode,

  Touch’d by the best of Kings,

  That sang the holy Ode.

  So his, which Women slue,

  And it int’ Hebrus threw,

  Such sounds yet forth it sent,

  The Bankes to weepe that drue,

  As downe the streame it went.

  That by the Tortoyse shell,

  To MAYAS Sonne it fell,

  The most thereof not doubt

  But sure some Power did dwell,

  In Him who found it out.

  The Wildest of the field,

  And Ayre, with Riuers t’ yeeld,

  Which mou’d; that sturdy Glebes,

  And massie Oakes could weeld,

  To rayse the pyles of Thebes.

  And diuersly though Strung,

  So anciently We sung,

  To it, that Now scarce knowne,

  If first it did belong

  To Greece, or if our Owne.

  The Druydes imbrew’d,

  With Gore, on Altars rude

  With Sacrifices crown’d,

  In hollow Woods bedew’d,

  Ador’d the Trembling sound.

  Though wee be All to seeke,

  Of PINDAR that Great Greeke,

  To Finger it aright,

  The Soule with power to strike,

  His hand retayn’d such Might.

  Or him that Rome did grace

  Whose Ayres we all imbrace,

  That scarcely found his Peere,

  Nor giueth PHOEBVS place,

  For Strokes diuinely cleere.

  The Irish I admire,

  And still cleaue to that Lyre,

  As our Musike’s Mother,