Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works
Page 178
From Winters rage,
That long there doth not liue.
When as the Lushious smell
Of that delicious Land,
Aboue the Seas that flowes,
The cleere Wind throwes,
Your Hearts to swell
Approaching the deare Strande.
In kenning of the Shore
(Thanks to God first giuen,) 50
O you the happy’st men,
Be Frolike then,
Let Cannons roare,
Frighting the wide Heauen.
And in Regions farre
Such Heroes bring yee foorth,
As those from whom We came,
And plant Our name,
Vnder that Starre
Not knowne vnto our North. 60
And as there Plenty growes
Of Lawrell euery where,
APOLLO’S Sacred tree,
You may it see,
A Poets Browes
To crowne, that may sing there.
Thy Voyages attend,
Industrious HACKLVIT,
Whose Reading shall inflame
Men to seeke Fame, 70
And much commend
To after-Times thy Wit.
AN ODE WRITTEN IN THE PEAKE
This while we are abroad,
Shall we not touch our Lyre?
Shall we not sing an ODE?
Shall that holy Fire,
In vs that strongly glow’d,
In this cold Ayre expire?
Long since the Summer layd
Her lustie Brau’rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way’d,
And BOREAS ‘gins to frowne, 10
Since now I did behold
Great BRVTES first builded Towne.
Though in the vtmost Peake,
A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
Expos’d to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
To exercise our Vaine.
What though bright PHŒBVS Beames
Refresh the Southerne Ground, 20
And though the Princely Thames
With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber’s Streames
Be many Wonders found;
Yet many Riuers cleare
Here glide in Siluer Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
Buckston’s delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
T’ asswage breeme Winters scathes. 30
Those grim and horrid Caues,
Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saues,
What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craues,
And doth inuite our Lay.
In places farre or neere,
Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
Or where the most impure, 40
All times, and euery-where,
The Muse is still in vre.
HIS DEFENCE AGAINST THE IDLE CRITICK
The Ryme nor marres, nor makes,
Nor addeth it, nor takes,
From that which we propose;
Things imaginarie
Doe so strangely varie,
That quickly we them lose.
And what ‘s quickly begot,
As soone againe is not,
This doe I truely know:
Yea, and what ‘s borne with paine, 10
That Sense doth long’st retaine,
Gone with a greater Flow.
Yet this Critick so sterne,
But whom, none must discerne,
Nor perfectly haue seeing,
Strangely layes about him,
As nothing without him
Were worthy of being.
That I my selfe betray
To that most publique way, 20
Where the Worlds old Bawd,
Custome, that doth humor,
And by idle rumor,
Her Dotages applaud.
That whilst he still prefers
Those that be wholly hers,
Madnesse and Ignorance,
I creepe behind the Time,
From spertling with their Crime,
And glad too with my Chance. 30
O wretched World the while,
When the euill most vile,
Beareth the fayrest face,
And inconstant lightnesse,
With a scornefull slightnesse,
The best Things doth disgrace.
Whilst this strange knowing Beast,
Man, of himselfe the least,
His Enuie declaring,
Makes Vertue to descend, 40
Her title to defend,
Against him, much preparing.
Yet these me not delude,
Nor from my place extrude,
By their resolued Hate;
Their vilenesse that doe know;
Which to my selfe I show,
To keepe aboue my Fate.
TO HIS RIVALL
Her lou’d I most,
By thee that ‘s lost,
Though she were wonne with leasure;
She was my gaine,
But to my paine,
Thou spoyl’st me of my Treasure.
The Ship full fraught
With Gold, farre sought,
Though ne’r so wisely helmed,
May suffer wracke 10
In sayling backe,
By Tempest ouer-whelmed.
But shee, good Sir,
Did not preferre
You, for that I was ranging;
But for that shee
Found faith in mee,
And she lou’d to be changing.
Therefore boast not
Your happy Lot, 20
Be silent now you haue her;
The time I knew
She slighted you,
When I was in her fauour.
None stands so fast,
But may be cast
By Fortune, and disgraced:
Once did I weare
Her Garter there,
Where you her Gloue haue placed. 30
I had the Vow
That thou hast now,
And Glances to discouer
Her Loue to mee,
And she to thee
Reades but old Lessons ouer.
She hath no Smile
That can beguile,
But as my Thought I know it;
Yea, to a Hayre, 40
Both when and where,
And how she will bestow it.
What now is thine,
Was onely mine,
And first to me was giuen;
Thou laugh’st at mee,
I laugh at thee,
And thus we two are euen.
But Ile not mourne,
But stay my Turne, 50
The Wind may come about, Sir,
And once againe
May bring me in,
And help to beare you out, Sir.
A SKELTONIAD
The Muse should be sprightly,
Yet not handling lightly
Things graue; as much loath,
Things that be slight, to cloath
Curiously: To retayne
The Comelinesse in meane,
Is true Knowledge and Wit.
Not me forc’d Rage doth fit,
That I thereto should lacke
Tabacco, or need Sacke, 10
Which to the colder Braine
Is the true Hyppocrene;
Nor did I euer care
For great Fooles, nor them spare.
Vertue, though neglected,
Is not so deiected,
As vilely to descend
To low Basenesse their end;
Neyther each ryming Slaue
Deserues the Name to haue 20
Of Poet: so the Rabble
Of Fooles, for the Table,
That haue their Iests by Heart,
As an Actor his Part,
Might assume them Chayres
Amongst the Muses Heyres.
Parnassus is not clome
By euery such Mome;
Vp whose steep side who swerues,
It behoues t’ haue strong Nerues: 30
My Resolution such,
How well, and not how much
To write, thus doe I fare,
Like some few good that care
(The euill sort among)
How well to liue, and not how long.
THE CRYER
Good Folke, for Gold or Hyre,
But helpe me to a Cryer;
For my poore Heart is runne astray
After two Eyes, that pass’d this way.
O yes, O yes, O yes,
If there be any Man,
In Towne or Countrey, can
Bring me my Heart againe,
Ile please him for his paine;
And by these Marks I will you show, 10
That onely I this Heart doe owe.
It is a wounded Heart,
Wherein yet sticks the Dart,
Eu’ry piece sore hurt throughout it,
Faith, and Troth, writ round about it:
It was a tame Heart, and a deare,
And neuer vs’d to roame;
But hauing got this Haunt, I feare
‘Twill hardly stay at home.
For Gods sake, walking by the way, 20
If you my Heart doe see,
Either impound it for a Stray,
Or send it backe to me.
TO HIS COY LOVE
A CANZONET
I pray thee leaue, loue me no more,
Call home the Heart you gaue me,
I but in vaine that Saint adore,
That can, but will not saue me:
These poore halfe Kisses kill me quite;
Was euer man thus serued?
Amidst an Ocean of Delight,
For Pleasure to be sterued.
Shew me no more those Snowie Brests,
With Azure Riuerets branched, 10
Where whilst mine Eye with Plentie feasts,
Yet is my Thirst not stanched.
O TANTALVS, thy Paines n’er tell,
By me thou art preuented;
’Tis nothing to be plagu’d in Hell,
But thus in Heauen tormented.
Clip me no more in those deare Armes,
Nor thy Life’s Comfort call me;
O, these are but too pow’rfull Charmes,
And doe but more inthrall me. 20
But see, how patient I am growne,
In all this coyle about thee;
Come nice thing, let my Heart alone,
I cannot liue without thee.
A HYMNE TO HIS LADIES BIRTH-PLACE
Couentry, that do’st adorne
The Countrey wherein I was borne,
Yet therein lyes not thy prayse
Why I should crowne thy Tow’rs with Bayes:
Couentry finely ’Tis not thy Wall, me to thee weds
walled. Thy Ports, nor thy proud Pyrameds,
The Shoulder-bone Nor thy Trophies of the Bore,
of a hare of But that Shee which I adore,
mighty bignesse. Which scarce Goodnesse selfe can payre,
First their breathing blest thy Ayre; 10
IDEA, in which Name I hide
Her, in my heart Deifi’d,
For what good, Man’s mind can see,
Onely her IDEAS be;
She, in whom the Vertues came
In Womans shape, and tooke her Name,
She so farre past Imitation,
As but Nature our Creation
Could not alter, she had aymed,
More then Woman to haue framed: 20
She, whose truely written Story,
To thy poore Name shall adde more glory,
Then if it should haue beene thy Chance,
T’ haue bred our Kings that Conquer’d France.
Had She beene borne the former Age,
Two famous That house had beene a Pilgrimage,
Pilgrimages, the And reputed more Diuine,
one in Norfolk, Then Walsingham or BECKETS Shrine.
the other in That Princesse, to whom thou do’st owe
Kent. Thy Freedome, whose Cleere blushing snow, 30
Godiua, Duke The enuious Sunne saw, when as she
Leofricks wife, Naked rode to make Thee free,
who obtained the Was but her Type, as to foretell,
Freedome of the Thou should’st bring forth one, should excell
city, of her Her Bounty, by whom thou should’st haue
husband, by riding More Honour, then she Freedome gaue;
thorow it naked. And that great Queene, which but of late
Queene Rul’d this Land in Peace and State,
Elizabeth. Had not beene, but Heauen had sworne,
A Maide should raigne, when she was borne. 40
A noted Streete Of thy Streets, which thou hold’st best,
in Couentry. And most frequent of the rest,
Happy Mich-Parke eu’ry yeere,
His Mistresse On the fourth of August there,
birth-day. Let thy Maides from FLORA’S bowers,
With their Choyce and daintiest flowers
Decke Thee vp, and from their store,
With braue Garlands crowne that dore.
The old Man passing by that way,
To his Sonne in time shall say, 50
There was that Lady borne, which long
To after-Ages shall be sung;
Who vnawares being passed by,
Back to that House shall cast his Eye,
Speaking my Verses as he goes,
And with a Sigh shut eu’ry Close.
Deare Citie, trauelling by thee,
When thy rising Spyres I see,
Destined her place of Birth;
Yet me thinkes the very Earth 60
Hallowed is, so farre as I
Can thee possibly descry:
Then thou dwelling in this place,
Hearing some rude Hinde disgrace
Thy Citie with some scuruy thing,
Which some Iester forth did bring,
Speake these Lines where thou do’st come,
And strike the Slaue for euer dumbe.
TO THE CAMBRO-BRITANS AND THEIR HARPE, HIS BALLAD OF AGINCOVRT
Faire stood the Wind for France,
When we our Sayles aduance,
Nor now to proue our chance,
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the Mayne,
At Kaux, the Mouth of Sene,
With all his Martiall Trayne,
Landed King HARRY.
And taking many a Fort,
Furnish’d in Warlike sort, 10
Marcheth tow’rds Agincourt,
In happy howre;
Skirmishing day by day,
With those that stop’d his way,
Where the French Gen’rall lay,
With all his Power.
Which in his Hight of Pride,
King HENRY to deride,
His Ransome to prouide
To the King sending. 20
Which he neglects the while,
As from a Nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his Men,
Quoth our braue HENRY then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet haue we well begunne,
Battels so brauely wonne, 30
Haue euer to the Sonne,
By Fame beene raysed.
And, for my Selfe (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be,
England ne’r mourne for Me,
Nor more esteeme me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this Earth lie slaine,
Neuer shall Shee sustaine,<
br />
Losse to redeeme me. 40
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When most their Pride did swell,
Vnder our Swords they fell,
No lesse our skill is,
Than when our Grandsire Great,
Clayming the Regall Seate,
By many a Warlike feate,
Lop’d the French Lillies.
The Duke of Yorke so dread,
The eager Vaward led; 50
With the maine, HENRY sped,
Among’st his Hench-men.
EXCESTER had the Rere,
A Brauer man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false French-men!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on Armour shone,
Drumme now to Drumme did grone,
To heare, was wonder; 60
That with the Cryes they make,
The very Earth did shake,
Trumpet to Trumpet spake,
Thunder to Thunder.
Well it thine Age became,
O Noble ERPINGHAM,
Which didst the Signall ayme,
To our hid Forces;
When from a Medow by,
Like a Storme suddenly, 70
The English Archery
Stuck the French Horses,
With Spanish Ewgh so strong,
Arrowes a Cloth-yard long,
That like to Serpents stung,
Piercing the Weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing Manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together. 80
When downe their Bowes they threw,
And forth their Bilbowes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardie;
Armes were from shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the Teeth were rent,
Downe the French Pesants went,
Our Men were hardie.
This while our Noble King,
His broad Sword brandishing, 90
Downe the French Hoast did ding,
As to o’r-whelme it;
And many a deepe Wound lent,
His Armes with Bloud besprent,
And many a cruell Dent
Bruised his Helmet.
GLOSTER, that Duke so good,
Next of the Royall Blood,
For famous England stood,
With his braue Brother; 100
CLARENCE, in Steele so bright,
Though but a Maiden Knight,
Yet in that furious Fight,
Scarce such another,
WARWICK in Bloud did wade,
OXFORD the Foe inuade,
And cruell slaughter made,
Still as they ran vp;
SVFFOLKE his Axe did ply,
BEAVMONT and WILLOVGHBY 110
Bare them right doughtily,
FERRERS and FANHOPE.
Vpon Saint CRISPIN’S day
Fought was this Noble Fray,
Which Fame did not delay,
To England to carry;