Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  When they haue seen thee scourg’d and want reliefe.

  Those only shall reioice with thee againe,

  And those shall be partakers of thy glorie,

  And shall in blisse for ay with thee remaine,

  Now passed once these troubles transitorie:

  Then, oh my soule, see thou reioice and sing,

  And laud the great and highest heuenly King!

  And he will build Jerusalem full faire

  With emeralds and saphyrs of great price;

  With precious stones he will her walles repaire,

  Her towers of golde with worke of rare deuice;

  And all her streetes with berall will he paue,

  With carbunckles and ophirs passing braue:

  And all her people there shall sit and say.

  Praised be God with Aleluiah!

  FINIS.

  IDEA, THE SHEPHERD’S GARLAND

  CONTENTS

  THE FIRST EGLOG.

  THE SECOND EGLOG.

  THE THIRD EGLOG.

  THE FOVRTH EGLOG.

  THE FIFTH EGLOG.

  THE SIXT EGLOG.

  THE SEVENTH EGLOG.

  THE EIGHTH EGLOG.

  THE NINTH EGLOG.

  Effugiunt auidos Carmina sola roges.

  TO THE NOBLE, AND VALEROVS GENTLEMAN, MASTER ROBERT DUDLEY: ENRICHED WITH ALL VERTVES OF THE MINDE, AND WORTHY OF ALL HONORABLE DESERT.

  Your most affectionate, and deuoted:

  Michael Drayton.

  THE FIRST EGLOG.

  When as the ioyfull spring brings in the Summers sweete reliefe:

  Poore Rowland malcontent be wayles the winter of his griefe.

  NOW Phoebus from the equinoctiall Zone,

  Had task’d his teame vnto the higher spheare.

  And from the brightnes of his glorious throne,

  Sends forth his Beames to light the lower ayre,

  The cheerfull welkin, comen this long look’d hower,

  Distils adowne full many a siluer shower.

  Fayre Philomel night-musicke of the spring,

  Sweetly recordes her tunefull harmony,

  And with deepe sobbes, and dolefull sorrowing,

  Before fayre Cinthya actes her Tragedy:

  The Throstle cock, by breaking of the day,

  Chants to his sweete, full many a louely lay.

  The crawling snake, against the morning sunne,

  Now streaks him in his rayn-bow coloured cote:

  The darkesome shades, as loathsome he doth shunne,

  Inchanted with the Birds sweete siluan note:

  The Buck forsakes the launds where he hath fed,

  And scornes the hunt should view his veluet head.

  Through all the partes, dispersed is the blood,

  The lustie spring, in flower of all her pride,

  Man, bird, and beast, and fish, in pleasant flood,

  Reioycing all in this most ioyfull tide:

  Saue Rowland leaning on a Ranpick tree,

  O’r growne with age, forlorne with woe was he.

  Oh blessed Pan, thou shepheards god sayth he,

  O thou Creator of the starrie light,

  Whose wonderous workes shew thy diuinitie,

  Thou wise inuentor of the day and night,

  Refreshing nature with the louely spring,

  Quite blemisht erst, with stormy winters sting.

  O thou strong builder of the firmament,

  Who placedst Phoebus in his fierie Carre,

  And by thy mighty Godhead didst inuent,

  The planets mansions that they should not iarre,

  Ordeyning Phebe, mistresse of the night,

  From Tytans flame to steale her forked light.

  Euen from the cleerest christall shining throne,

  Vnder whose feete the heauens are low abased,

  Commaunding in thy maiestie alone,

  Whereas the fiery Cherubines are placed:

  Receiue my vowes as incense vnto thee,

  My tribute due to thy eternitie.

  O shepheards soueraigne, yea receiue in gree,

  The gushing teares, from neuer-resting eyes,

  And let those prayers which I shall make to thee,

  Be in thy sight perfumed sacrifice:

  Let smokie sighes be pledges of contrition,

  For follies past to make my soules submission.

  Submission makes amends for all my misse,

  Contrition a refined life begins,

  Then sacred sighes, what thing more precious is?

  And prayers be oblations for my sinnes,

  Repentant teares, from heauen-beholding eyes,

  Ascend the ayre, and penetrate the skies.

  My sorowes waxe, my ioyes are in the wayning,

  My hope decayes, and my despayre is springing,

  My loue hath losse, and my disgrace hath gayning,

  Wrong rules, desert with teares her hands sits wringing:

  Sorrow, despayre, disgrace, and wrong, doe thwart

  My Ioy, my loue, my hope, and my desert.

  Deuouring time shall swallow vp my sorrowes,

  And strong beliefe shall torture black despaire,

  Death shall orewhelme disgrace, in deepest furrowes,

  And Iustice laie my wrongs vpon the Beere:

  Thus Iustice, death, beleefe, and time, ere long,

  Shall end my woes, despayre, disgrace, and wrong.

  Yet time shall be expir’d and lose his date,

  And full assurance cancell strongest trust,

  Eternitie shall trample on deathes pate,

  And Iustice shall surcease when all be iust:

  Thus time, beleefe, death, Iustice, shall surcease,

  By date, assurance, eternity, and peace.

  Thus breathing from the Center of his soule,

  The tragick accents of his extasie,

  His sun-set eyes gan here and there to roule,

  Like one surprisde with sodaine lunacie:

  And being rouzde out of melancholly,

  Flye whirle-winde thoughts vnto the heauens quoth he.

  Now in the Ocean Tytan quencht his flame,

  And summond Cinthya to set vp her light,

  The heauens with their glorious starry frame,

  Preparde to crowne the sable-vayled night:

  When Rowland from this time consumed stock,

  With stone-colde hart now stalketh towards his flock.

  Quid queror? & toto facio conuicia coelo:

  Di quo{que} habent oculos, di quo{que} pectus habent.

  THE SECOND EGLOG.

  Wynken of mans frayle wayning age

  declares the simple truth,

  And doth by Rowlands harmes reprooue

  Mottos vnbrideled youth.

  Motto.

  MIGHT my youths mirth delight thy aged yeeres,

  My gentle shepheard father of vs all,

  Wherewith I why lome Ioy’d my louely feeres,

  Chanting sweete straines of heauenly pastorall.

  Now would I tune my miskins on this Greene,

  And frame my muse those vertues to vnfold,

  Of that sole Phenix Bird, my liues sole Queene:

  Whose locks done staine, the three times burnisht gold.

  But melancholie grafted in thy Braine,

  My Rimes seeme harsh, to thy vnrelisht taste,

  Thy droughthy wits, not long refresht with raigne,

  Parched with heat, done wither now and waste.

  Wynken.

  Indeed my Boy, my wits been all forlorne,

  My flowers decayd, with winter-withered frost,

  My clowdy set eclips’d my cherefull morne,

  That Iewell gone wherein I ioyed most.

  My dreadful thoughts been drawen vpon my face,

  In blotted lines with ages iron pen,

  The lothlie morpheu saffroned the place,

  Where beuties damaske daz’d the eies of men.

  A cumber-world, yet in the world am lef
t,

  A fruitles plot, with brambles ouergrowne,

  Misliued man of my worlds ioy bereft,

  Hart-breaking cares the ofspring of my mone.

  Those daintie straines of my well tuned reed,

  Which manie a time haue pleasd my wanton eares,

  Nor sweet, nor pleasing thoughts in me done breed,

  But tell the follies of my wandring yeares.

  Those poysned pils been biding at my hart,

  Those loathsome drugs of my youths vanitie,

  Sweete seem’d they once, ful bitter now and tart,

  Ay me consuming corosiues they be.

  Motto.

  Euen so I weene, for thy olde ages feuer,

  Deemes sweetest potions bitter as the gall,

  And thy colde Pallat hauing lost her sauour,

  Receiues no comfort in a cordiall.

  Wynken.

  As thou art now, was I a gamesome boy,

  Though staru’d with wintred eld as thou do’st see,

  And well I know thy swallow-winged ioy,

  Shalbe forgotten as it is in me.

  When on the Arche of thine eclipsed eies,

  Time hath ingrau’d deepe characters of death,

  And sun-burnt age thy kindlie moisture dries,

  Thy wearied lungs be niggards of thy breath,

  Thy brawne-falne armes, thy camock-bended backe,

  The time-plow d furrowes in thy fairest field,

  The Southsaiers of natures wofull wrack,

  When blooming age must stoupe to starued eld,

  When Lillie white is of a tawnie die,

  Thy fragrant crimson turn’d ash-coloured pale,

  Thy skin orecast with rough embroderie,

  And cares rude pencell, quite disgrac’d thy sale,

  When downe-beds heat must thawe thy frozen cold,

  And luke-warme brothes recure Phlebotomie,

  And when the bell is readie to be tol’d,

  To call the wormes to thine Anatomie:

  Remember then my boy, what once I said to thee.

  Now am I like the knurrie-bulked Oke,

  Whome wasting eld hath made a toombe of dust,

  Whose windvfallen branches fold by tempest stroke,

  His barcke consumes with canker wormed rust

  And though thou seemst like to the bragging bryer,

  As gay as is the mornings Marygolde,

  Yet shortly shall thy sap be drie and seere,

  Thy gaudy Blossomes blemished with colde.

  Euen such a wanton, an vnruly swayne,

  was little Rowland, when of yore as he,

  Vpon the Beechen tree on yonder playne,

  Carued this rime of loues Idolatrie.

  The Gods delight, the heauens hie spectacle,

  Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.

  Fortunes fayr’st mistresse, vertues surest guide,

  Loues Gouernesse, and natures chiefest pride.

  Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence,

  Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.

  Conceipts sole Riches thoughts only treasure,

  Desires true hope, loyes sweetest pleasure.

  Mercies due merite, valeurs iust reward,

  Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde.

  Yea she alone, next that eternall he,

  The expresse Image of eternitie.

  Motto.

  Oh diuine loue, which so aloft canst raise,

  And lift the minde out of this earthly mire,

  And do’st inspire the pen with so hie prayse,

  As with the heauens doth equal mans desire.

  Thou lightning flame of sacred Poesie,

  Whose furie doth incense the swelling braines,

  As drawes to thee by heauen-bred Sympathie,

  The sweete delights of highest soaring vaines:

  Who doth not helpe to deck thy holy Shrine,

  With Mirtle, and triumphant Lawrell tree?

  Who will not say that thou art most diuine?

  Or who doth not confesse thy deitie?

  Wynken.

  A foolish boy, full ill is he repayed,

  For now the wanton pines in endles paine,

  And sore repents what he before missaide,

  So may they be which can so lewdly faine.

  Now hath this yonker torne his tressed lockes,

  And broke his pipe which sounded erst so sweete,

  Forsaking his companions and their flocks,

  And casts his gayest garland at his feete.

  And being shrowded in a homely cote,

  And full of sorrow as a man might be,

  He tun’d his Rebeck with a mournfull note,

  And thereto sang this dolefull elegie.

  Tell me fayre flocke (if so you can conceaue)

  The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,

  If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,

  By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips

  Or vgly Saturne from his combust sent,

  This fat all presage of deaths dreryment.

  Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,

  Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light,

  Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,

  Expell’st the clouds of my harts lowring might,

  Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice,

  Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.

  May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?

  Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?

  May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?

  Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?

  Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,

  When loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn’d.

  Yet needes the earth must droupe with visage sad;

  When siluer dewes been turn’d to bitter stormes,

  The Cheerefull Welkin once in sables clad,

  Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.

  And yet for all to make amends for this,

  The clouds sheed teares and weepen at my misse.

  Motto.

  Woe’s me for him that pineth so in payne,

  Alas poore Rowland, how it pities me,

  So faire a baite should breed so foule a bayne,

  Or humble shewes should couer crueltie.

  Winken

  Beware by him thou foolish wanton swayne,

  By others harmes thus maist thou learne to heede,

  Beautie and wealth been fraught with hie disdaine,

  Beleeue it as a Maxim of thy Creede.

  Motto.

  If that there be such woes and paines in loue,

  Woe be to him that list the same to proue.

  Wynken.

  Yes thou shalt find, if thou desir’st to proue,

  There is no hell, vnto the paines in loue.

  THE THIRD EGLOG.

  Rowland and Perkin both Ifeere, in field vpon a day,

  With little Robin redbrests Round, doe passe the time away.

  Perkin.

  ROWLAND for shame awake thy drowsie muse,

  Time plaies the hunts-vp to thy sleepie head,

  Why li’st thou here as thou hadst long been dead, foule idle swayne?

  Who euer heard thy pipe and pleasing vaine,

  And doth but heare this scurrill minstralcy.

  These noninos of filthie ribauldry, that doth not muse.

  Then slumber not with foule Endymion,

  But tune thy reede to dapper virelayes,

  And sing a while of blessed Betas prayse, faire Beta she:

  In thy sweete song so blessed may’st thou bee,

  For learned Collin laies his pipes to gage,

  And is to fayrie gone a Pilgrimage: the more our mone.

  Rowland.

  What Beta? shepheard, she is Pans belou’d,

  Faire Betas praise beyond our straine doth stretch,

  Her notes too hie
for my poore pipe to reach,

  poore oten reede:

  So farre vnfit to speake of worthies deede,

  But set my stops vnto a lower kay,

  Whereas a horne-pipe I may safelie play,

  yet vnreproou’d.

  With flatterie my muse could neuer fage,

  Nor could affect such vaine scurrility,

  To please lewd Lorrels, in their foolery,

  too base and vile:

  Nor but a note yet will I raise my stile,

  My selfe aboue Will Piper to aduance,

  Which so bestirs him at the morris dance,

  for pennie wage.

  Perkin.

  Rowland, so toyes oft times esteemed are,

  And fashions euer changing with the time,

  Then frolick it a while in lustie rime,

  with mirth and glee:

  And let me heare that Roundelay of thee,

  Which once thou sangst to me in Ianeueer.

  When Robin-redbrest sitting on a breere,

  the burthen bare.

  Rowland.

  Well needes I must yet with a heauie hart:

  But were not Beta sure I would not sing,

  Whose praise the ecchoes neuer cease to ring,

  vnto the skies.

  Pirken.

  Be blith good Rowland then, and cleere thine eyes:

  And now sith Robin to his roost is gone,

  Good Rowland then supplie the place alone,

  and shew thy arte.

  O thou fayre siluer Thames: O cleerest chrystall flood,

  Beta alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood,

  The Queene of Uirgins onely she:

  And thou the Queene of floods shalt be:

  Let all thy Nymphes be ioyfull then to see this happy day,

  Thy Beta now alone shalbe the subiect of my laye.

  With daintie and delight some straines of sweetest virelayes:

  Come louely shepheards sit we down & chant our Betas prayse:

  And let vs sing: so rare a verse,

  Our Betas prayses to reheaerse

  That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing,

  And riuers backward bend their course, & flow vnto the spring.

  Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke,

  And place them duely one by one, vpon thy stately banck,

  Then set together all a good,

  Recording to the siluer stood,

  And craue the tunefull Nightingale to helpe you with her lay,

  The Osel & the Throstlecocke, chiefe musick of our maye.

  O see what troups of Nimphs been sporting on the strands,

  And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Oliues in their

  How meryly the Muses sing, (hands.

  That all the flowry Medowesring,