Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  And Beta sits vpon the banck, in purple and in pall,

  And she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the Corinall.

  Trim vp her Golden tresses with Apollos sacred tree,

  O happy sight vnto all those that loue and honor thee,

  The Blessed Angels haue prepar’d,

  A glorious Crowne for thy reward,

  Not such a golden Crowne as haughtie Caesar weares,

  But such a glittering starry Crowne as Ariadne beares.

  Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur’d Colombine,

  And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglentine:

  Bedeck our Beta all with Lillies,

  And the dayntie Daffadillies,

  With Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice,

  With Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloues of Paradice.

  O thou fayre torch of heauen, the dayes most deerest light,

  And thou bright-shyning Cinthya, the glory of the night:

  You starres the eyes of heauen,

  And thou the glyding leuen,

  And thou O gorgeous Iris with all strange Colours dyed,

  When she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.

  See how the day stands still, admiring of her face,

  And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy Beta to imbrace,

  The Syrens sing sweete layes,

  The Trytons sound her prayse,

  Goe passe on Thames and hie thee fast vnto the Ocean sea,

  And let thy billowes there proclaime thy Betas holy-day.

  And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Oliue tree,

  With whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserued

  Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours, (be,

  And mirtle for Loues Paramours:

  That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preseru’d by peace,

  And let the mournfist Cipres die, now stormes & tempests cease.

  Wee’l straw the shore with pearle where Beta walks alone,

  And we wil paue her princely Bower with richest Indian stone,

  Perfume the ayre and make it sweete,

  For such a Goddesse it is meete,

  For if her eyes for purity contend with Tytans light,

  No maruaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight.

  Sound out your trumpets then, from Londons stately towres,

  To beat the stormie windes a back & calme the raging showres,

  Set too the Cornet and the flute,

  The Orpharyon and the Lute,

  And tune the Taber and the pipe, to the sweet violons,

  And moue the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.

  Beta long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice,

  And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize,

  Thy shepheards watch by day and night,

  Thy Mayds attend the holy light,

  And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east vnto the west,

  And thou vnder thy feet mayst tread, that soule seuen-headed

  beast.

  Perken.

  Thanks gentle Rowland for my Roundelay,

  And bless’d be Beta burthen of thy song,

  The shepheards Goddesse may she florish long, O happie she.

  Her yeares and dayes thrice doubled may they bee.

  Triumphing Albion clap thy hands for ioy,

  And pray the heauens may shield her from anoy,

  so will I pray.

  Rowland.

  So doe, and when my milk-white eawes haue yeande,

  Beta shall haue the firstling of the foulde,

  I le burnish all his hornes with finest gould,

  and paynt his fleece with purple grayne.

  Perkin.

  Beleeue me as I am true shepheards swayne,

  Then for thy loue all other I forsake,

  And vnto thee my selfe I will betake,

  with fayth vnfayn’d.

  Ipse ego thura dabo, fumosis candidus aris:

  Ipse feram ante tuos munera vota pedes.

  THE FOVRTH EGLOG.

  Wynken be wayleth Elphinslosse,

  the God of Poesie,

  with Rowlands rime ecleepd the tears

  of the greene Hawthorne tree.

  Gorbo.

  WELL met good wynken, whither doest thou wend?

  How hast thou far’d sweet shepherd many a yeer?

  May wynken thus his daies in darkenes spend?

  Who I haue knowne for piping had no peere?

  Where been those fayre flocks thou wert wont to guide?

  What? been they dead? or hap’d on some mischance,

  Or mischiefe hath their master else betide,

  Or Lordly Loue hath cast thee in a trance.

  What man? lets still be merie whilst we may,

  And take a truce with sorrow for a time,

  And let vs passe this wearie winters day,

  In reading Riddles, or in making rime.

  Wynken.

  Ah woe’s me Gorbo, mirth is farre away,

  Mirth may not soiourne with black malcontent,

  The lowring aspect of this dismall day,

  The winter of my sorrow doth augment.

  My song is now a swanne-like dying song,

  And my conceipts, the deepe conceipts of death,

  My heart becom’n a very hell of wrong,

  My breast the irksome prison of my breath.

  I loth my life, I loth the dearest light,

  Com’n is my night, when once appeeres the day,

  The blessed sunne seemes odious in my sight,

  No song may like me but the shreech-owles lay.

  Gorbo.

  What mayst thou be, that old wynkin de word,

  Whose thred-bare wits o’rworne with melancholly,

  Once so delightsome at the shepheards boord,

  But now forlorne with thy selues self-wild folly.

  I think thou dot’st in thy gray-bearded age,

  Or brusd with sinne, for thy youths sin art sory,

  And vow’st for thy? a solemne pilgrimage,

  To holy Hayles or Patricks Purgatory.

  Come sit we downe vnder this Hawthorne tree.

  The morrowes light shall lend vs daie enough,

  And tell a tale of Gawen or Sir Guy,

  Of Robin Hood, or of good Clema Clough.

  Or else some Romant vnto vs areed,

  Which good olde Godfrey taught thee in thy youth,

  Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,

  Or of thy loue, or of thy lasses truth.

  Winken

  Gorbo, my Comfort is accloyd with care,

  A new mishap my wonted ioyes hath crost:

  Then meruaile not although my musicke iarre,

  When she the Author of her mirth hath lost,

  Elphin is dead, and in his graue is laid,

  Our liues delight whilst louely Elphin liued,

  What cruell fate hath so the time berraid,

  The widow world of all her ioyes depriued.

  O cursed death, Liues fearsull enemie,

  Times poysned sickle: Tyrants reuenging pride:

  Thou blood-sucker, Thou childe of infamie:

  Deuouring Tiger: slaughtering homicide:

  Ill hast thou done, and ill may thee betide.

  Naught hast thou got, the earth hath wonne the most,

  Nature is payd the interest of her due,

  Pan hath receau’d, what him so dearly cost,

  O heauens his vertues doe belong to you.

  A heauenly clowded in a humaine shape,

  Rare substance, in so rough a barcke Iclad,

  Of Pastorall, the liuely springing sappe,

  Though mortall thou, thy fame immortall made.

  Spel-charming Prophet, sooth-diuining seer,

  O heauenly musicke of the highest spheare,

  Sweet sounding trump, soule-rauishing desire,

  Thou stealer of mans heart, i
nchanter of the eare.

  God of Inuention, Ioues deere Mercury,

  Ioy of our Lawrell, pride of all our ioy:

  The essence of all Poets diuinitie,

  Spirit of Orpheus: Pallas louely boy.

  But all my words shalbe dissolu’d to teares,

  And my tears fountaines shall to riuers grow:

  These Riuers to the floods of my dispaires,

  And these shall make an Ocean of my woe.

  His rare desarts, shall kindle my desire,

  With burning zeale, the brands of mine vnrest,

  My sighes in adding sulphure to this fire,

  Shall frame another Ætna in my breast.

  Planets reserue your playnts till dismall day,

  The ruthles rockes but newly haue begonne,

  And when in drops they be dissolu’d away,

  Let heauens begin to weepe when earth hath done.

  Then tune thy pipe and I will sing alaye,

  Vpon his death by Rowland of the rocke,

  Sitting with me this other stormy day,

  In you sayre field attending on our flock.

  Gorbo.

  This shall content me Wynken wondrous well,

  And in this mistie wether keepe vs waking,

  To heare ofhim, who whylome did excell,

  In such a song of learned Rowlands making.

  Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,

  And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base,

  And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,

  with weeping verse,

  attend his hearse,

  Whose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.

  Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,

  Warble forth your wamenting harmony,

  And at his drery fat all obsequie,

  with Cypres bowes,

  maske your fayre Browes,

  And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

  Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen,

  And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,

  Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,

  vnto our endles mone,

  from vs why art thou gone,

  To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.

  O whylome thou thy lasses dearest loue,

  When with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee,

  Immortall mirror of all Poesie:

  the Muses treasure,

  the Graces pleasure,

  Reigning with Angels now in heauen aboue.

  Our mirth is now depriu’d of all her glory,

  Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd.

  Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound,

  our melodie is mar’d

  and we of ioyes debard,

  Oh wicked world so mutable and transitory.

  O dismall day, bereauer of delight,

  O stormy winter sourse of all our sorrow,

  O most vntimely and eclipsed morrow,

  to rob vs quite

  of all delight,

  Darkening that starre which euer shone so bright:

  Oh Elphin, Elphin, Though thou hence be gone,

  In spight of death yet shalt thou liue for aye,

  Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye:

  and still shall blaze

  thy lasting prayse:

  Whose losse poore shepherds euer shall bemone.

  Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his graue,

  With damaske Roses and the hyacynt:

  Come with sweete Williams, Marioram and Mynt,

  with precious Balmes,

  with hymnes and psalmes,

  His funerall deserues no lesse at all to haue.

  But see where Elphin sits in fayre Elizia,

  Feeding his flocke on yonder heauenly playne,

  Come and behold, yon louely shepheards swayne,

  piping his fill,

  on yonder hill,

  Tasting sweete Nectar, and Ambrosia.

  Gorbo.

  Oh how thy plaints (sweete friend) renew my payne,

  In listning thus to thy lamenting cries:

  That from the tempest of my troubled brayne,

  See how the floods been risen in mine eyes.

  And being now a full tide of our teares,

  It is full time to stop the streame of griefe,

  Lest drowning in the floods of our despaires,

  We want our liues, wanting our soules reliefe.

  But now the sunne beginneth to decline,

  And whilest our woes been in repeating here,

  Yon little eluish moping Lamb of mine,

  Is all betangled in yon crawling Brier.

  Optima prima ferè manibus rapiuntur auaris:

  Implentur numer is deteriora suis.

  THE FIFTH EGLOG.

  This lustie swayne bis lowly quill,

  to higher notes doth rayse,

  And in Ideas person paynts,

  his louely lasses prayse.

  Motto.

  COME frolick it a while my lustie swayne,

  Let’s see if time haue yet reuiu’d in thee,

  Or if there be remayning but a grayne,

  Of the olde stocke of famous poesie,

  Or but one slip yet left of this same sacred tree.

  Or if reseru’d from elds deuouring rage,

  Recordes of vertue, Aye memoriall,

  Left to the world as learnings lasting gage,

  Or if the prayse of worthy pastorall,

  May tempt thee now, or mooue thee once at all.

  To Fortunes Orphanes Nature hath bequeath’d,

  That mighty Monarchs seldome haue possest,

  From highest Heauen, this influence is breath’d,

  A most diuine impression in the breast, (feast.

  And those whom Fortune pines doth Nature often

  Ti’s not the troupes of paynted Imagerie,

  Nor these worlds Idols, our worlds Idiots gazes,

  Our forgers of suppos’d Gentillitie,

  When he his great, great Grand-sires glory blases,

  And paints out fictions in base coyned Phrases.

  For honour naught regards, nor followeth fame,

  These silken pictures shewed in euery streete:

  Of Idlenes comes euill, of pride ensueth shame,

  And blacke obliuion is their winding sheete,

  And all their glory troden vnder feete.

  Though Enuie sute her seuen-times poysned dartes,

  Yet purest golde is seuen times try’d in fier,

  True valeur lodgeth in the lowlest harts,

  Vertue is in the minde, not in th’attyre,

  Nor stares at starres; nor stoups at filthy myre.

  Rowland.

  I may not sing of such as fall, nor clyme,

  Nor chaunt of armes, nor of heroique deedes,

  It fitteth not poore shepheards rurall rime,

  Nor is agreeing with my oaten reedes,

  Nor from my quill, grosse flatterie proceedes.

  Vnsitting tearmes, nor false dissembling smiles,

  Shall in my lines, nor in my stile appeare,

  Worlds fawning fraud, nor like deceitfull guiles,

  No, no, my muse none such shall soiourne here,

  Nor any bragges of hope nor signes of base despaire,

  No fatall dreades nor fruitles vaine desires,

  Nor caps, nor curtsies to a paynted wall,

  Nor heaping rotten sticks on needles fires,

  Ambitious thoughts to clime nor fearcs to fall,

  A minde voyd of mistrust, and free from seruile thral.

  Foule slander thou suspitions Bastard Child,

  Selfe-eating Impe from vipers poysned wombe,

  Foule swelling to ade with lothly spots defil’d,

  Vile Aspis bred within the ruinde tombe,

  Eternall death for euer be thy doombe.

  Still be thou shrouded in blacke pitchie night,

  Luld with the horror o
f night-rauens song,

  Let foggie mistes, clowd and eclipse thy light,

  Thy wooluish teeth chew out thy venomd tongue,

  With Snakes and adders be thy body stong.

  Motto.

  Nor these, nor these, may like thy lowlie quill,

  As of too hie, or of too base a straine,

  Vnfitting thee, and sdeyned ofthy skill,

  Nor yet according with a shepheards vayne,

  Nor no such subiect may beseeme a swayne.

  Then tune thy reede vnto Ideas prayse:

  And teach the woods to wonder at her name:

  Thy lowlie notes here mayst thou learne to rayse,

  And make the ecchoes blazen out her name,

  The lasting trumpe of Phebes lasting fame.

  Thy Temples then shall with greene bayes be dight,

  Thy Egle-soring muse vpon her wing,

  With her fayre siluer wings shall take her flight,

  To that hie welked tower where Angels sing,

  From thence to fetch the tutch of her sweete string.

  Rowland.

  Oh hie inthronized Ioue, in thy Olympicke raigne,

  Oh battel-waging Marte, oh sage-saw’d Mercury,

  Oh Golden shrined Sol, Uenus loues soueraigne,

  Oh dreadfull Saturne, flaming aye with furie,

  Moyst-humord Cinthya, Author of Lunacie,

  Conioyne helpe to erect our faire Ideas trophie.

  Oh Tresses of faire Phoebus stremed die,

  Oh blessed load-starre lending purest light,

  Oh Paradice of heauenly tapistrie,

  Angels sweete musick, O my soules delight,

  O fayrest Phebe passing euery other light.

  Whose presence ioyes the earths decayed state,

  Whose counsels are registred in the sphere,

  Whose sweete reflecting clearenes doth amate,

  The starrie lights, and makes the Sunne more fayre,

  Whose breathing sweete perfumeth all the ayre.

  Thy snowish necke, fayre Natures tresurie,

  Thy swannish breast, the hauen of lasting blisse,

  Thy cheekes the bancks of Beauties vsurie,

  Thy heart the myne, where goodnes gotten is,

  Thy lips those lips which Cupid ioyes to kisse.

  And those fayre hands within whose louely palmes,

  Fortune diuineth happie Augurie,

  Those straightest fingers dealing heauenly almes,

  Pointed with pur’st of Natures Alcumie,

  Where loue sits looking in loues palmistrie.

  And those fayre Iuorie columnes which vpreare,

  That Temple built by heauens Geometrie,

  And holiest Flamynes sacrifizen theare,

  Vnto that heauenly Queene of Chastitie,

  Where vertues burning lamps can neuer quenched be.

  Thence see the fairest light that euer shone,

  That cleare which doth worlds cleerenes quite surpasse,