[from the Edition of 1602]

Thou which do'st guide this little world of loue,Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold,My brow the spheare whereSaturnestill doth moue,Wrinkled with cares: and withered, dry, and cold;Mine eyes the Orbe whereIupiterdoth trace,Which gently smile because they looke on thee,Marsin my swarty visage takes his place,Made leane with loue, where furious conflicts bee.Solin my breast with his hote scorching flame,And in my hart alone dothVenusraigne:Mercurymy hands the Organs of thy fame,AndLunaglides in my fantastick braine;The starry heauen thy prayse by me exprest,Thou the first moouer, guiding all the rest.

Love banish'd heauen, in earth was held in scorne,Wandring abroad in neede and beggery,And wanting friends though of a Goddesse borne,Yet crau'd the almes of such as passed by.I like a man, deuout and charitable;Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wandring guest,With sighs and teares still furnishing his table,With what might make the miserable blest;But this vngratefull for my good desart,Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,Who gaue consent to steale away my hart,And set my breast his lodging on a fire:Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold,No meruaile then though charity grow cold.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Me thinks I see some crooked Mimick ieereAnd 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 drestThat euery dowdie, euery trull doth weare?Vnto my pitch no common iudgement flies,I scorne all earthlie dung-bred scarabies.

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.

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,Medealike 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 dieMy name shall mount vpon eternitie.

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 likeOrpheussing to trees and stones:Which with my plaints seeme yet with pitty moued,Kinder then she who I so long haue loued.

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.

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 subuersion 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.

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.

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.

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 commendedAnd 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.

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 witBeare with me, then, though troubled be my braine;With diet and correction, men distraught,(Not too farre past) may to their wits be brought.

If hee from heauen that filch'd that liuing fire,Condemn'd byIoueto endlesse torment be,I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,That farre beyondPromethiusdid 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 oldPromethiuspunish'd for his rape,Thus poore theeues suffer, when the greater scape.

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.

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 notIn 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.

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.

Deare, why should you commaund me to my restWhen 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.

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 speed (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.

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.

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,Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.

Decorative

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 theyWhen 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.

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.

In pride of wit, when high desire of fameGaue 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.

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.

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,Essexgreat fall,Tyronehis 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.

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.

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.

I will not striue m' inuention to inforce,With needlesse words your eyes to entertaine,T' obserue the formall ordinarie courseThat 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 waiesThen 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.

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 relateMy tedious Trauels, and oft-varying Fate.

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 liueVpon 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 Sexes onely glory:So shalt thou flye aboue the vulgar Throng,Still to suruiue in my immortall Song.

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.

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 bequeathA 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.

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 allApollo'sgolden Treasure;Yet by my Troth, this Foole his Loue obtaines,And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines.

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 youEquall with his, that loues his Mistris most:Or Nature must be partiall in my Cause,Or onely you doe violate her Lawes.

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slackeTo 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 HellishStyx(by which theThund'rersweares)By thy faire Mothers vnauoided Power,ByHecat'sNames, byProserpine'ssad Teares,When she was rapt to the infernall Bower,By thine own louedPsyches, by the FiresSpent 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, orCupidbe thou damn'd.

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