Minor Poems of Michael Drayton Part 8

Sonnet _66_

_To the Lady_ L.S.

Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit, A thousand Nimph-like and enamoured Graces, The G.o.ddesses 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, Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.

[from the Edition of 1605]

Sonnet 43

Why should your faire eyes with such soueraine grace, Dispea.r.s.e 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 G.o.d 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 coa.r.s.e 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 coa.r.s.e, 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, _Ess.e.x_ 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 G.o.ddesse 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._

[from the Edition of 1619]

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 Compa.s.se, 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.

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 superfluous 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 s.e.xes onely glory: So shalt thou flye aboue the vulgar Throng, Still to suruiue in my immortall Song.

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.

15

_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.

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.

27

Is not Loue here, as 'tis in other Clymes, And diff'reth it, as doe the seu'rall Nations?