SONNETS

Thy Bowe, halfe broke, is peec'd with old desire;Her Bowe is beauty with ten thousand strings....

are rare enough. Drayton, in fact, comes as near controverting the statementPoeta nascitur, non fit, as any one in English literature: by diligent toil and earnest desire he won a place for himself in the second rank of English poets: through love he once set foot in the circle of the mightiest. Sincere he was always, simple often, sensuous rarely. His great industry, his careful study, and his great receptivity are shown in the unusual spectacle of a man who has sung well in the language of his youth, suddenly learning, in his age, the tongue spoken by the younger generation, and reproducing it with individuality and sureness of touch. It is in rhetoric, splendid or rugged, in argument, in plain statement or description, in the outline sketch of a picture, that Drayton excels; magic of atmosphere and colouring are rarely present. Stolidity is, perhaps, his besetting sin; yet it is the sign of a slow, not a dull, intellect; an intellect, like his heart, which never let slip what it had once taken to itself.

As a man Drayton would seem to have been an excellent type of the sturdy, clear-headed, but yet romantic and enthusiastic Englishman; gifted with much natural ability, sedulously increased by study; quietly humorous, self-restrained; and if temporarily soured by disappointment and the disjointed times, yet emerging at last into a greater serenity, a more unadulterated gaiety than had ever before characterized him. It is possible, but from his clear and sane balance of mind improbable, that many of his light later poems aredue to deliberate self-blinding and self-deception, a walking in enchanted lands of the mind.

Of Drayton's three known portraits the earliest shows him at the age of thirty-six, and is now in the National Portrait Gallery. A look of quiet, speculative melancholy seems to pervade it; there is, as yet, no moroseness, no evidence of severe conflict with the world, no shadow of stress or of doubt. The second and best-known portrait shows us Drayton at the age of fifty, and was engraved by Hole, as a frontispiece to the poems of 1619. Here a notable change has come over the face; the mouth is hardened, and depressed at the corners through disappointment and disillusionment; the eyes are full of a pathos increased by the puzzled and perturbed uplift of the brows. Yet a stubbornness and tenacity of purpose invests the features and reminds us that Drayton is of the old and sound Elizabethan stock, 'on evil days though fallen.' Let it be remembered, that he was in 1613, when the portrait was taken, in more or less prosperous circumstances; it was the sad degeneracy, the meanness and feebleness of the generation around him, that chiefly depressed and embittered him. The final portrait, now in the Dulwich Gallery, represents the poet as a man of sixty-five; and is quite in keeping with the sunnier and calmer tone of his later poetry. It is the face of one who has not emerged unscathed from the world's conflict, but has attained to a certain calm, a measure of tranquillity, a portion of content, who has learnt the lesson that there is a soul of goodness in things evil. The Hole portrait shows him with long hair, small 'goatee' beard, and aquiline nose drawn up at the nostrils: while the National portrait shows a type of nose and beard intermediate between the Hole and the Dulwich pictures: the general contour of the face, though the forehead is broad enough, is long and oval. Drayton seems to have been tall and thin, and to have been very susceptible of cold, and therefore to have hated Winter and the North.[25]He is said to have shared in the supper which caused Shakespeare's death; but his own verses[26]breathe the spirit of Milton's sonnet to Cyriack Skinner, rather than that of a devotee of Bacchus.

He died in 1631, possibly on December 23, and was buried under the North wall of Westminster Abbey. Meres's[27]opinion of his character during his early life is as follows: 'As Aulus Persius Flaccus is reported among al writers to be of an honest life and vpright conuersation: so Michael Drayton,quem totics honoris et amoris causa nomino, among schollers, souldiours, Poets, and all sorts of people is helde for a man of uertuous disposition, honest conversation, and well gouerned cariage; which is almost miraculous among good wits in these declining and corrupt times, when there is nothing but rogery in villanous man, and when cheating and craftines is counted the cleanest wit, and soundest wisedome.'[28]Fuller also, in a similar strain, says, 'He was a pious poet, his conscience having the command of his fancy, very temperate in his life, slow of speech, and inoffensive in company.'

In conclusion I have to thank Mr. H.M. Sanders, of Pembroke College, Oxford, for help and advice, and Professor Raleigh and Mr. R.W. Chapman for help and criticism while the volume was in the press. Above all, I am at every turn indebted to Professor Elton's invaluableMichael Drayton,[29]without which the work of any student of Drayton would be rendered, if not impossible, at least infinitely harder.

CYRIL BRETT.Alton, Staffordshire.

[1]Cf. Elegy viij,To Henery Reynolds, Esquire, p. 108.

[2]Sir Aston Cokayne, in 1658, says that he went to Oxford, while Fleay asserts, without authority, that his university was probably Cambridge.

[3]Cf. the motto ofIdeas Mirrour, the allusions toAriostoin theNymphidia, p. 129; and above all, theHeroical Epistles; Dedic. ofEp.ofD.ofSuffolk to Q. Margaret: 'Sweet is theFrenchTongue, more sweet theItalian, but most sweet are they both, if spoken by your admired self.' Cf.Surrey to Geraldine, ll. 5 sqq., with Drayton's note.

[4]Cf. Sonnet xij (ed. 1602), p. 42, ''Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit.' (This sonnet may, of course, occur in the supposed 1600 ed., which would fix an earlier date for Drayton's beginning of love.)

[5]Elegy ix, p. 113.

[6]Cf. Morley's ed. ofBarons' Wars, &c. (1887), p. 6.

[7]Cf.E.H. Ep.'Mat. to K.J.,' 100 sqq., &c.

[8]Professor Courthope and others. There was some excuse for blunders before the publication of Professor Elton's book; and they have been made easier by an unfortunate misprint. Professor Courthope twice misprints the first line of the Love-Parting Sonnet, as 'Since there's no help, come let usriseand part', and, so printed, the line supports better the theory that the poem refers to a patroness and not to a mistress. Cf. Courthope,Hist. Eng. Poetry, iii. pp. 40 and 43.

[9]Cf.E. and Phoebe, sub fin.;Shep. Sir.145-8;Ep. Hy. Reyn.79 sqq.

[10]Those reprints which were really neweditionsare in italics.

[11]1594 ed., Pref. Son. and nos. 12, 18, 28; 1599 ed., nos. 3, 31, 46; 1602 ed., 12, 27, 31; and 1603 ed., 47.

[12]Meres thought otherwise. Cf.Palladis Tamia(1598), 'As Accius, M. Atilius, and Milithus were calledTragediographi, because they writ tragedies: so may wee truly terme Michael DraytonTragaediographusfor his passionate penning the downfals of valiant Robert of Normandy, chast Matilda, and great Gaueston.' Cf. Barnefield,Poems: in diuers humors(ed. Arber, p. 119), 'And Drayton, whose wel-written Tragedies, | And Sweete Epistles, soare thy fame to skies. | Thy learned name is equall with the rest; | Whose stately Numbers are so well addrest.'

[13]Cf. Meres,Palladis Tamia(1598), 'Michael Drayton doth imitate Ouid in hisEngland's Heroical Epistles.'

[14]Cf. id.,ibid., 'As Lucan hath mournefully depainted the ciuil wars of Pompey and Cæsar: so hath Daniel the ciuill wars of Yorke and Lancaster, and Drayton the civill wars of Edward the second and the Barons.'

[15]Cf. Elegy viij. 126-8.

[16]Cf. Morley's ed.,Barons' Wars, &c., 1887, pp. 6-7.

[17]Cf. Elron, pp. 83-93, and Whitaker,M. Drayton as a Dramatist(Public. Mod. Lang. Assoc. of America, vol. xviij. 3).

[18]Cf.Nl.ij. 127 sqq., p. 172.

[19]Cf. Elegy ij. 20.

[20]Cf.Palladis Tamia: 'Michael Drayton is now in penning, in English verse, a Poem calledPoly-olbion, Geographicall & Hydrographicall of all the forests, woods, mountaines, fountaines, riuers, lakes, flouds, bathes, & springs that be in England.'

[21]Cf.Amours(1594), xx and xxiv.

[22]Cf. Sonnet vj (1619 edition); which is a dignified summary of much that he says more coarsely in theMoone-Calfe.

[23]Cf. Morley's ed.Barons' Wars, &c., p. 8.

[24]Charles FitzGeoffrey,Drake(1596), 'golden-mouthed Drayton musical.' Guilpin,Skialetheia(1598), 'Drayton's condemned of some for imitation, But others say, 'tis the best poet's fashion ... Drayton's justly surnam'd golden-mouth'd.' Meres,Palladis Tamia(1598),' In Charles Fitz-JefferiesDrakeDrayton is termed "golden-mouth'd" for the purity and pretiousnesse of his stile and phrase.'

[25]Cf.E. H. E., pp. 90, 99 (ed. 1737); Elegy i; andOde written in the Peak.

[26]Elegy viij, ad init.

[27]Palladis Tamia(1598).

[28]Cf.Returne from Parnassus, i. 2 (1600) ed. Arb. p. 11.

[29]Michael Drayton. A Critical Study. Oliver Elton, M.A. London: A. Constable & Co., 1905.

Decorative

Vovchsafe to grace these rude vnpolish'd rymes,Which long (dear friend) haue slept in sable night,And, come abroad now in these glorious tymes,Can hardly brook the purenes of the light.But still you see their desteny is such,That in the world theyr fortune they must try,Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,Wearing your name, theyr gracious liuery.Yet these mine owne: I wrong not other men,Nor trafique further then thys happy Clyme,Nor filch fromPortes, nor fromPetrarchspen,A fault too common in this latter time.Diuine Syr Phillip, I auouch thy writ,I am no Pickpurse of anothers wit.Yours deuoted,M. Drayton.

Decorative

Reade heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo,The drery abstracts of my endles cares,With my liues sorow enterlyned so;Smok'd with my sighes, and blotted with my teares:The sad memorials of my miseries,Pend in the griefe of myne afflicted ghost;My liues complaint in doleful Elegies,With so pure loue as tyme could neuer boast.Receaue the incense which I offer heere,By my strong fayth ascending to thy fame,My zeale, my hope, my vowes, my praise, my prayer,My soules oblation to thy sacred name:Which name my Muse to highest heauen shal raiseBy chast desire, true loue, and vertues praise.

My fayre, if thou wilt register my loue,More then worlds volumes shall thereof arise;Preserue my teares, and thou thy selfe shall proueA second flood downe rayning from mine eyes.Note but my sighes, and thine eyes shal beholdThe Sun-beames smothered with immortall smoke;And if by thee, my prayers may be enrold,They heauen and earth to pitty shall prouoke.Looke thou into my breast, and thou shall seeChaste holy vowes for my soules sacrifice:That soule (sweet Maide) which so hath honoured thee,Erecting Trophies to thy sacred eyes;Those eyes to my heart shining euer bright,When darknes hath obscur'd each other light.

My thoughts bred vp with Eagle-birds of loue,And, for their vertues I desiered to know,Vpon the nest I set them forth, to proueIf they were of the Eagles kinde or no:But they no sooner saw my Sunne appeare,But on her rayes with gazing eyes they stood;Which proou'd my birds delighted in the ayre,And that they came of this rare kinglie brood.But now their plumes, full sumd with sweet desire,To shew their kinde began to clime the skies:Doe what I could my Eaglets would aspire,Straight mounting vp to thy celestiall eyes.And thus (my faire) my thoughts away be flowne,And from my breast into thine eyes be gone.

My faire, had I not erst adorned my LuteWith those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre,Vnto the world had all my ioyes been mute,Nor had I learn'd to descant on my faire.Had not mine eye seene thy Celestiall eye,Nor my hart knowne the power of thy name,My soule had ne'er felt thy Diuinitie,Nor my Muse been the trumpet of thy fame.But thy diuine perfections, by their skill,This miracle on my poore Muse haue tried,And, by inspiring, glorifide my quill,And in my verse thy selfe art deified:Thus from thy selfe the cause is thus deriued,That by thy fame all fame shall be suruiued.

Since holy Vestall lawes haue been neglected,The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite;No Virgin once attending on that light,Nor yet those heauenly secrets once respected;Till thou alone, to pay the heauens their dutieWithin the Temple of thy sacred name,With thine eyes kindling that Celestiall flame,By those reflecting Sun-beames of thy beautie.Here Chastity that Vestall most diuine,Attends that Lampe with eye which neuer sleepeth;The volumes of Religions lawes shee keepeth,Making thy breast that sacred reliques shryne,Where blessed Angels, singing day and night,Praise him which made that fire, which lends that light.

In one whole world is but one Phoenix found,A Phoenix thou, this Phoenix then alone:By thy rare plume thy kind is easly knowne,With heauenly colours dide, with natures wonder cround.Heape thine own vertues, seasoned by their sunne,On heauenly top of thy diuine desire;Then with thy beautie set the same on fire,So by thy death thy life shall be begunne.Thy selfe, thus burned in this sacred flame,With thine owne sweetnes al the heauens perfuming,And stil increasing as thou art consuming,Shalt spring againe from th' ashes of thy fame;And mounting vp shall to the heauens ascend:So maist thou liue, past world, past fame, past end.

Stay, stay, sweet Time; behold, or ere thou passeFrom world to world, thou long hast sought to see,That wonder now wherein all wonders be,Where heauen beholds her in a mortall glasse.Nay, looke thee, Time, in this Celesteall glasse,And thy youth past in this faire mirror see:Behold worlds Beautie in her infancie,What shee was then, and thou, or ere shee was.Now passe on, Time: to after-worlds tell this,Tell truelie, Time, what in thy time hath beene,That they may tel more worlds what Time hath seene,And heauen may ioy to think on past worlds blisse.Heere make a Period, Time, and saie for mee,She was the like that neuer was, nor neuer more shalbe.

Vnto the World, to Learning, and to Heauen,Three nines there are, to euerie one a nine;One number of the earth, the other both diuine,One wonder woman now makes three od numbers euen.Nine orders, first, of Angels be in heauen;Nine Muses doe with learning still frequent:These with the Gods are euer resident.Nine worthy men vnto the world were giuen.My Worthie one to these nine Worthies addeth,And my faire Muse one Muse vnto the nine;And my good Angell, in my soule diuine,With one more order these nine orders gladdeth.My Muse, my Worthy, and my Angell, then,Makes euery one of these three nines a ten.

Beauty sometime, in all her glory crowned,Passing by that cleere fountain of thine eye,Her sun-shine face there chaunsing to espy,Forgot herselfe, and thought she had been drowned.And thus, whilst Beautie on her beauty gazed,Who then, yet liuing, deemd she had been dying,And yet in death some hope of life espying,At her owne rare perfections so amazed;Twixt ioy and griefe, yet with a smyling frowning,The glorious sun-beames of her eyes bright shining,And shee, in her owne destiny diuining,Threw in herselfe, to saue herselfe by drowning;The Well of Nectar, pau'd with pearle and gold,Where shee remaines for all eyes to behold.

Oft taking pen in hand, with words to cast my woes,Beginning to account the sum of all my cares,I well perceiue my griefe innumerable growes,And still in reckonings rise more millions of dispayres.And thus, deuiding of my fatall howres,The payments of my loue I read, and reading crosse,And in substracting set my sweets vnto my sowres;Th' average of my ioyes directs me to my losse.And thus mine eyes, a debtor to thine eye,Who by extortion gaineth all theyr lookes,My hart hath payd such grieuous vsury,That all her wealth lyes in thy Beauties bookes;And all is thine which hath been due to mee,And I a Banckrupt, quite vndone by thee.

Thine eyes taught mee the Alphabet of loue,To con my Cros-rowe ere I learn'd to spell;For I was apt, a scholler like to proue,Gaue mee sweet lookes when as I learned well.Vowes were my vowels, when I then begunAt my first Lesson in thy sacred name:My consonants the next when I had done,Words consonant, and sounding to thy fame.My liquids then were liquid christall teares,My cares my mutes, so mute to craue reliefe;My dolefull Dypthongs were my liues dispaires,Redoubling sighes the accents of my griefe:My loues Schoole-mistris now hath taught me so,That I can read a story of my woe.

Some Atheist or vile Infidell in loue,When I doe speake of thy diuinitie,May blaspheme thus, and say I flatter thee,And onely write my skill in verse to proue.See myracles, ye vnbeleeuing! seeA dumbe-born Muse made to expresse the mind,A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,One by thy name, the other touching thee.Blind were mine eyes, till they were seene of thine,And mine eares deafe by thy fame healed be;My vices cur'd by vertues sprung from thee,My hopes reuiu'd, which long in graue had lyne:All vncleane thoughts, foule spirits, cast out in meeBy thy great power, and by strong fayth in thee.

CleereAnkor, on whose siluer-sanded shoreMy soule-shrinde Saint, my faireIdea, lyes;O blessed Brooke! whose milk-white Swans adoreThe christall streame refined by her eyes:Where sweet Myrh-breathingZephyrein the springGently distils his Nectar-dropping showers;Where Nightingales inArdensit and singAmongst those dainty dew-empearled flowers.Say thus, fayre Brooke, when thou shall see thy Queene:Loe! heere thy Shepheard spent his wandring yeeres,And in these shades (deer Nimphe) he oft hath been,And heere to thee he sacrifiz'd his teares.FayreArden, thou myTempeart alone,And thou, sweetAnkor, art myHelicon.

Looking into the glasse of my youths miseries,I see the ugly face of my deformed cares,With withered browes, all wrinckled with dispaires,That for my mis-spent youth the tears fel from my eyes.Then, in these teares, the mirror of these eyes,Thy fayrest youth and Beautie doe I seeImprinted in my teares by looking still on thee:Thus midst a thousand woes ten thousand joyes arise.Yet in those joyes, the shadowes of my good,In this fayre limned ground as white as snow,Paynted the blackest Image of my woe,With murthering hands imbru'd in mine own blood:And in this Image his darke clowdy eyes,My life, my youth, my loue, I heere Anotamize.

Now, Loue, if thou wilt proue a Conqueror,Subdue thys Tyrant euer martyring mee;And but appoint me for her Tormentor,Then for a Monarch will I honour thee.My hart shall be the prison for my fayre;Ile fetter her in chaines of purest loue,My sighs shall stop the passage of the ayre:This punishment the pittilesse may moue.With teares out of the Channels of mine eyesShe'st quench her thirst as duly as they fall:Kinde words vnkindest meate I can deuise,My sweet, my faire, my good, my best of all.Ile binde her then with my torne-tressed haire,And racke her with a thousand holy wishes;Then, on a place prepared for her there,Ile execute her with a thousand kisses.Thus will I crucifie, my cruell shee;Thus Ile plague her which hath so plagued mee.

VertuesIdeain virginitie,By inspiration, came conceau'd with thought:The time is come deliuered she must be,Where first my loue into the world was brought.Vnhappy borne, of all vnhappy day!So luckles was my Babes nativity,Saturnechiefe Lord of the Ascendant lay,The wandring Moone in earths triplicitie.Now, or by chaunce or heauens hie prouidence,His Mother died, and by her Legacie(Fearing the stars presaging influence)Bequeath'd his wardship to my soueraignes eye;Where hunger-staruen, wanting lookes to liue,Still empty gorg'd, with cares consumption pynde,Salt luke-warm teares shee for his drink did giue,And euer-more with sighes he supt and dynde:And thus (poore Orphan) lying in distresseCryes in his pangs, God helpe the motherlesse.

If euer wonder could report a wonder,Or tongue of wonder worth could tell a wonder thought,Or euer ioy expresse what perfect ioy hath taught,Then wonder, tongue, then ioy, might wel report a wonder.Could all conceite conclude, which past conceit admireth,Or could mine eye but ayme her obiects past perfection,My words might imitate my deerest thoughts direction,And my soule then obtaine which so my soule desireth.Were not Inuention stauld, treading Inuentions maze,Or my swift-winged Muse tyred by too hie flying;Did not perfection still on her perfection gaze,Whilst Loue (my Phoenix bird) in her owne flame is dying,Inuention and my Muse, perfection and her loue,Should teach the world to know the wonder that I proue.

Some, when in ryme they of their Loues doe tell,With flames and lightning their exordiums paynt:Some inuocate the Gods, some spirits of Hell,And heauen, and earth doe with their woes acquaint.Eliziais too hie a seate for mee:I wyll not come inStixeorPhlegiton;The Muses nice, the Furies cruell be,I lyke notLimbo, nor blackeAcheron,SpightfulErinnisfrights mee with her lookes,My manhood dares not with fouleAtemell:I quake to looke onHecatscharming bookes,I styll feare bugbeares inApolloscell.I passe not forMineruanorAstræa.But euer call vpon diuineIdea.

If those ten Regions, registred by Fame,By theyr ten Sibils haue the world controld,Who prophecied of Christ or ere he came,And of his blessed birth before fore-told;That man-god now, of whom they did diuine,This earth of those sweet Prophets hath bereft,And since the world to iudgement doth declyne,Instead of ten, one Sibil to vs left.Thys pureIdea, vertues right Idea,Shee of whomMerlinlong tyme did fore-tell,Excelling her ofDelphosorCumæa,Whose lyfe doth saue a thousand soules from hell:That life (I meane) which doth Religion teach,And by example true repentance preach.

Reading sometyme, my sorrowes to beguile,I find old Poets hylls and floods admire:One, he doth wonder monster-breedingNyle,Another meruailes SulphureAetnasfire.Now broad-brymdIndus, then ofPindusheight,PelionandOssa, frostyCaucaseold,The DelianCynthus, thenOlympusweight,SlowArrer, frantickeGallus,Cydnuscold.SomeGanges,Ister, and ofTagustell,Some whir-poolePo, and slydingHypasis;Some oldPernassuswhere the Muses dwell,SomeHelycon, and some faireSimois:A, fooles! thinke I, had youIdeaseene,Poore Brookes and Banks had no such wonders beene.

Letters and lynes, we see, are soone defaced,Mettles doe waste and fret with cankers rust;The Diamond shall once consume to dust,And freshest colours with foule staines disgraced.Paper and yncke can paynt but naked words,To write with blood of force offends the sight,And if with teares, I find them all too light;And sighes and signes a silly hope affoords.O, sweetest shadow! how thou seru'st my turne,Which still shalt be as long as there is Sunne,Nor whilst the world is neuer shall be done,Whilst Moone shall shyne by night, or any fire shall burne:That euery thing whence shadow doth proceede,May in his shadow my Loues story reade.

My hart, imprisoned in a hopeless Ile,Peopled with Armies of pale iealous eyes,The shores beset with thousand secret spyes,Must passe by ayre, or else dye in exile.He framd him wings with feathers of his thought,Which by theyr nature learn'd to mount the skye;And with the same he practised to flye,Till he himself thys Eagles art had taught.Thus soring still, not looking once below,So neere thyne eyes celesteall sunne aspyred,That with the rayes his wafting pyneons fired:Thus was the wanton cause of his owne woe.Downe fell he, in thy Beauties Ocean drenched,Yet there he burnes in fire thats neuer quenched.

Wonder of Heauen, glasse of diuinitie,Rare beautie, Natures joy, perfections Mother,The worke of that vnited Trinitie,Wherein each fayrest part excelleth other!Loues Mithridate, the purest of perfection,Celestiall Image, Load-stone of desire,The soules delight, the sences true direction,Sunne of the world, thou hart reuyuing fire!Why should'st thou place thy Trophies in those eyes,Which scorne the honor that is done to thee,Or make my pen her name immortalize,Who in her pride sdaynes once to look on me?It is thy heauen within her face to dwell,And in thy heauen, there onely, is my hell.

Our floods-Queene,Thames, for shyps and Swans is crowned,And statelySeuernefor her shores is praised,The christallTrentfor Foords and fishe renowned,AndAuonsfame toAlbyonsCliues is raysed.Carlegion Chestervaunts her holyDee,Yorkemany wonders of herOusecan tell,ThePeakeherDoue, whose bancks so fertill bee,AndKentwill say herMedwaydoth excell.Cotswoold commends herIsisand herTame,Our Northern borders boast ofTweedsfaire flood;Our Westerne parts extoll theyr Wilys fame,And oldLegeabrags ofDanishblood:ArdenssweetAnkor, let thy glory beThat fayreIdeashee doth liue by thee.

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