Collected Works of Michael Drayton
Page 12
Thou Arke of Heauen, where wonders are inroled,
O depth of nature, who can looke vnto thee?
O who is he that hath thy doome controuled?
Or hath the key of reason to vndoe thee:
Thy workes diuine which powers alone doe knowe,
Our shallow wittes too short for things belowe.
The soule diuine by her integritye,
And by the functious agents of the minde,
Cleer-sighted, so perceiueth through the eye,
That which is pure and pleasing to her kinde,
And by hir powrfull motions apprehendeth,
That which beyond our humaine sence extendeth.
This Edward in the Aprill of his age,
Whil’st yet the Crowne sate on his fathers head,
My Ioue with me, his Ganimed, his page,
Frolick as May, a lustie life we led:
He might commaund, he was my Soueraigns sonne,
And what I saide, by him was euer done.
My words as lawes, Autentique he alloude,
Mine yea, by him was neuer crost with no,
All my conceite as currant he auowde,
And as my shadowe still he serued so,
My hand the racket, he the tennis ball,
My voyces echo, answering euery call.
My youth the glasse where he his youth beheld,
Roses his lipps, my breath sweete Nectar showers,
For sn my face was natures fayrest field,
Richly adornd with Beauties rarest flowers.
My breast his pillow, where he laide his hed,
Mine eyes his booke, my bosome was his bed.
My smiles were life, and Heauen vnto his sight,
All his delight concluding my desier,
From my sweete sunne, he borrowed all his light,
And as a flie play’d with my beauties fier,
His loue-sick lippes at euery kifsing qualme,
Cling to my lippes, to cure their griefe with balme.
Like as the wanton Yuie with his twyne,
Whenas the Oake his rootlesse bodie warmes,
The straightest saplings strictly doth combyne,
Clipping the woodes with his laciuious armes:
Such our imbraces when our sporte begins,
Lapt in our armes, like Ledas louely Twins.
Or as Loue-nursing Venus when she sportes,
With cherry-lipt Adonis in the shade,
Figuring her passions in a thousand sortes,
With sighes, and teares, or what else might perswade,
Her deere, her sweete, her ioy, her life, her loue,
Kissing his browe, his cheeke, his hand, his gloue.
My bewtie was the Load-starre of his thought,
My lookes the Pilot to his wandring eye,
By me his sences all a sleepe were brought,
When with sweete loue I sang his lullaby.
Nature had taught my tongue her perfect time,
Which in his eare stroake duely as a chyme.
With sweetest speech, thus could I syranize,
Which as strong Philters youthes desire could moue,
And with such method could I rhetorize,
My musick plaied the measures to his loue:
In his faire brest, such was my soules impression,
As to his eyes, my thoughts made intercession.
Thus like an Eagle seated in the sunne,
But yet a Phenix in my soueraigns eye,
We act with shame, our reuels are begunne,
The wise could iudge of our Catastrophe:
But we proceede to play our wanton prize,
Our mournfull Chorus was a world of eyes.
The table now of all delight is layd,
Seru’d with what banquets bewtie could deuise,
The Strens singe, and false Calypso playd,
Our feast is grac’d with youthes sweete comoedies,
Our looks with smiles, are sooth’d of euery eye,
Carrousing loue in boules of Iuorie.
Fraught with delight, and safely vnder sayle,
Like flight-wing’d Faucons now we take our scope,
Our youth and fortune blowe a mery gale,
We loose the anchor of our vertues hope:
Blinded with pleasure in this lustfull game,
By ouersight discard our King with shame.
My youthfull pranks, are spurs to his desire,
I held the raynes, that rul’d the golden sunne,
My blandishments were fewell to his fyer,
I had the garland whosoeuer wonne:
I waxt his winges and taught him art to flye,
Who on his back might beare me through the skye.
Here first that sun-bright temple was defild,
Which to faire vertue first was consecrated,
This was the fruite, wherewith I was beguild,
Heere first the deede of all my fame was dated:
O me! euen heere from paradice I fell,
From Angels state, from heauen, cast downe to hell.
Loe here the verie Image of perfection,
With the blacke pensill of defame is blotted,
And with the vlcers of my youths infection,
My innocencie is besmer’d, and spotted:
Now comes my night, ô now my day is done,
These sable cloudes eclipse my rising sunne.
Our innocence, our child-bred puritie
Is now defilde and as our dreames forgot,
Drawne in the coach of our securitie:
What act so vile, that we attempted not?
Our sun-bright vertues fountaine-cleer beginning,
Is now polluted by the filth of sinning.
O wit too wilfull, first by heauen ordayn’d,
An Antidote by vertue made to cherish,
By filthy vice, as with a mole art stayn’d,
A poyson now by which the sences perish:
That made of force, all vices to controule,
Defames the life, and doth confound the soule.
The Heauens to see my fall doth knit her browes,
The vaulty ground vnder my burthen groneth,
Vnto mine eyes, the ayre my light allowes,
The very winde my wickednesse bemoneth:
The barren earth repineth at my foode,
And Nature seemes to cursse her beastly broode.
And thus like slaues we sell our soules to sinne,
Vertue forgot by worldes deceitfull trust,
Alone by pleasure are we entred in,
Now wandring in the labyrinth of lust,
For when the soule is drowned once in vice,
The sweete of sinne, makes hell a paradice.
O Pleasure thou, the very lure of sinne,
The roote of woe, our youthes deceitfull guide,
A shop where all confected poysons been,
The bayte of lust, the instrument of pride,
Inchanting Circes, smoothing couer-guile,
A luring Siren, flattering Crockodile.
Our Ioue which sawe his Phoebus youth betrayde,
And Phaeton guide the sunne-carre in the skies,
Knewe well the course with danger hardly staide,
For what is not perceu’d by wise-mens eyes?
He knew these pleasures posts of our desire,
Might by misguiding set his throne on fier.
This was a corsiue to King Edwards dayes,
These iarring discords quite vntund his mirth,
This was the paine that neuer gaue him ease,
If euer hell, this was his hell on earth:
This was the burthen which he groned vnder,
This pincht his soule, and rent his heart in sunder.
This venom suckt the marrowe from his bones,
This was the canker which consum’d his yeares,
This fearfull vision, fild his sleepe with grones,
This winter snowd downe frost vpou his hayres:
&n
bsp; This was the moth, this was the fretting rust,
Which so consum’d his glorie vnto dust,
The humor found, which fed this foule disease
Must needes be stay’d, ere help could be deuis’d,
The vaine must breath the burning to appease,
Hardly a cure, the wound not cauteris’d:
That member now wherein the botch was risen
Infecteth all not cured by incision.
The cause coniectur’d by this prodigie,
From whence this foule contagious sicknes grue,
Wisdome alone must giue a remedie,
For to preuent the danger to insue:
The cause must end, ere the effect could cease,
Else might the danger dayly more increase.
Now those whose eyes to death enuide my glorie,
Whose saftie still vpon my down-fall stood,
These, these, could comment on my youthfull storie,
These were the wolues which thirsted for my blood:
These all vnlade their mischiefes at this baye,
And make the breach to enter my decaye.
These curres that liu’d by carrion of the court,
These wide-mouth’d hel-hounds long time kept at bay,
Finding the King to credit their reporte,
Like greedie rauens follow for their pray:
Dispightfull Langton fauorit to the King,
Was he which first, me in disgrace could bring.
Such as beheld this lightning from aboue,
My Princely Ioue from out the ayre to thunder:
This earth-quake which did my foundation moue,
This boystrous storme, this vnexspected wounder,
They thought my sunne had bin eclipsed quite,
And all my day now turn’d to winters night.
My youth embowel’d by their curious eyes,
Whose true reportes my life anatomis’d,
Who still pursu’d me like deceitfull spyes,
To crosse that which I wantonly deuis’d:
Perceaue the traine me to the trap had led,
And downe they come like haylestones on my head.
My Sonne eclips’d, ech Starre becomes a Sunne,
When Phoebus fayles, then Cynthia shineth bright,
These furnish vp the Stage, my act is done
Which were but Gloe-wormes to my glorious light,
Those erst condemn’d by my perfections doome,
In Phoebus chariot, now possesse my roome.
The Commons swore, I led the Prince to vice,
The Nobles said that I abus’d the King,
Graue Matrons such as lust could not intice,
Like women whispred of another thing:
Such as could not aspire vnto my place,
These were suborn’d to offer me disgrace.
The staffe thus broke, whereon my youth did stay,
And with the shaddowe all my pleasures gone:
Now with the windes my ioyes fleete hence away,
The silent night makes musik to my moane,
The tatling ecchoes whispering with the ayre,
Vnto my wordes sound nothing but despayre.
The frowning Heauens are all in sables clad,
The Planet of my liues misfortune raineth:
No musick serues a dying soule to glad,
My wrong to Tirants for redresse complaineth:
To ease my paine there is no remedie,
So farre despayre exceeds extremitie.
Why doe I quake my down-fall to reporte?
Tell on my ghost, the storie of my woe,
The King commaunds, I must depart the court,
I aske no question, he will haue it so:
The Lyons roring, lesser beastes doe feare,
The greatest flye, when he approcheth neare.
My Prince is now appointed to his guarde,
As srom a traytor he is kept from me,
My banishment already is preparde,
Away I must, there is no remedie:
On paine of death I may no longer stay,
Such is reuenge which brooketh no delaye.
The skies with cloudes are all inuelloped,
The pitchie fogs eclipse my cheerfull Sunne,
The geatie night hath all her curtaines spred
And all the ayre with vapours ouerrun:
Wanting those rayes whose cleernes lent me light,
My sun-shine day is turn’d to black-fac’d night.
Like to the birde of Ledaes lemmans die,
Beating his breast against the siluer streame,
The fatall prophet of his destinie,
With mourning chants, his death approching theame:
So now I sing the dirges of my fall
The Anthemes of my fatall funerall.
Or as the faithfull Turtle for her make
Whose youth enioyd her deere virginitie,
Sits shrouded in some melancholie brake
Chirping forth accents of her miserie,
Thus halfe distracted sitting all alone,
With speaking sighs, to vtter forth my mone.
My bewtie s’dayning to behold the light
Now weather-beaten with a thousaud stormes,
My daintie lims must trauaile day and night,
Which oft were lulde in princely Edwards armes,
Those eyes where bewtie sate in all her pride,
With fearefull obiects fild on euery side.
The Prince so much astonisht with the blowe,
So that it seem’d as yet he felt no paine,
Vntill at length awakned by his woe,
He sawe the wound by which his ioyes were slaine,
His cares fresh bleeding fainting more and more,
No Cataplasma now to cure the sore.
Now weepe mine eyes, and lend me teares at will,
You sad-musde sisters help me to indite,
And in your faire Castalia bathe my quill,
In bloodie lines whilst I his woes recite,
Inspire my muse O Heauens now from aboue,
To painte the passions of a princely loue.
His eyes about their rouling Globes doe cast,
To finde that Sunne, from whom they had their light,
His thoughtes doe labor for that sweete repast,
Which past the daye, and pleasd him all the night:
He countes the howers, so sloly how they runne,
Reproues the daye, and blames the loytring sunne.
As gorgious Phoebus in his first vprise
Discouering now his Scarlet-coloured head,
By troublous motions of the lowring Skies
His glorious beames with fogges are ouerspred,
So are his cheereful browes eclips’d with sorrowe,
Which cloud the shine of his youths-smiling morrow.
Now showring downe a flud of brackish teares,
The Epithemaes to his hart-swolne griefe,
Then sighing out a vollue of dispayres,
Which onely is th’afflicted mans reliefe:
Now wanting sighes, and all his teares were spent,
His tongue brake out into this sad lament.
O breake my hart quoth he, O breake and dye,
Whose infant thoughts were nurst with sweete delight;
But now the Inne of care and miserie,
Whose pleasing hope is murthered with despight:
O end my dayes, for now my ioyes are done,
Wanting my Peirs, my sweetest Gaueston.
Farewell my Loue, companion of my youth,
My soules delight, the subiect of my mirth,
My second selfe if I reporte the truth,
The rare and onely Phenix of the earth,
Farewell sweete friend, with thee my ioyes are gone,
Farewell my Peirs, my louely Gaueston.
What are the rest but painted Imagrie,
Dombe Idols made to fill vp idle roomes,
But gaudie anticks, sporte
s of foolerie,
But fleshly coffins, goodly gilded tombes,
But puppets which with others words replie,
Like pratling ecchoes soothing euery lie?
O damned world, I scorne thee and thy worth,
The very source of all iniquitie:
An ougly damme that brings such monsters forth,
The maze of death, nurse of impietie,
A filthie sinke, where lothsomnes doth dwell,
A labyrinth, a iayle, a very hell.
Deceitfull Siren traytor to my youth,
Bane to my blisse, false theefe that stealst my ioyes:
Mother of lyes, sworne enemie to truth,
The ship of fooles fraught all with gaudes and toyes,
A vessell stuft with foule hypocrisie,
The very temple of Idolatrie.
O earth-pale Saturne most maleuolent
Combustious Planet, tyrant in thy raigne,
The sworde of wrath, the roote of discontent,
In whose ascendant all my ioyes are slaine:
Thou executioner of foule bloodie rage,
To act the will of lame decrepit age.
My life is but a very mappe of woes,
My ioyes the fruite of an vntimely birth,
My youth in labour with vnkindly throwes,
My pleasures are like plagues that raigne on earth,
All my delights like streames that swiftly run,
Or like the dewe exhaled by the Sun.
O Heauens why are you deafe vnto my mone?
S’dayne you my prayers? or scorne to heare my misse?
Cease you to moue, or is your pittie gone?
Or is it you that rob me of my blisse?
What are you blinde, or winke and will not see?
Or doe you sporte at my calamitie?
O happie climat whatso ere thou be
Cheerd with those sunnes the fayr’st that euer shone,
Which hast those Stars which guide my destinie,
The brightest lamps in all the Horizon,
O happie eyes that see which most I lacke,
The pride and bewtie of the Zodiacke.
O blessed fountaine source of all delight,
O sacred sparke that kindlest Virtues fier!
The perfect obiect of the purest sight,
The superficies of true loues desire,
The very touchstone of all sweete conceite,
On whom all graces euermore awaite.
Thus whilst his youth in all these stormes was tost,
And whilst his ioyes lay speechles in a traunce,
His sweete content with such vnkindnes crost,
And lowring Fortune seem’d to looke askance:
Too weake to swim against the streamfull time,
Fore-told their fall which now sought most to clime.
Camelion-like, the world thus turns her hue,
And like Proteus puts on sundry shapes,