Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works
Page 10
who is so crowse and gamesome with the flame,
Till with her busines and her nicetie,
her nimble wings are scorched with the same,
Then fals she downe with pitteous buzzing note,
And in the fier doth sindge her mourning cote.
Batte.
Alas good man I see thou ginst to raue,
thy wits done erre, and misse the cushen quite,
Because thy head is gray and wordes been graue,
Thou think’st thereby to draw me from delight:
What I am young, a goodly Batcheler,
And must liue like the lustie limmeter.
Thy legges been crook’d, thy knees done bend for age,
and I am swift and nimble as the Roe,
Thou art ycouped like a bird in cage,
and in the field I wander too and froe,
Thou must doe penance for thy olde misdeedes,
And make amends, with Auies and with creedes.
For al that thou canst say, I will not let,
for why my fancie strayneth me so sore,
That day and night, my minde is wholy set
on iollie. Loue, and iollie Paramore:
Only on loue I set my whole delight,
The summers day, and all the winters night.
That pretie Cupid, little god of loue,
whose imped wings with speckled plumes been dight,
Who striketh men below, and Gods aboue,
Rouing at randon with his feathered flight,
When louely Uenus sits and giues the ayme,
And smiles to see her little Bantlings game.
Vpon my staffe his statue will I carue,
his bowe and quiuer on his winged backe,
His forked heads, for such as them deserue,
and not of his, an implement shall lacke,
And Uenus in her Litter all of loue,
Drawne with a Swanne, a Sparrow, and a Doue.
And vnder him Thesby of Babylon,
and Clcopatra somtime of renowne:
Phillis that died for loue of Demophôon,
Then louely Dido Queen of Carthage towne,
Which euer held god Cupids lawes so deare,
And been canoniz’d in Loues Calendere.
Borrill.
Ah wilfull boy, thy follie now I finde,
and hard it is a fooles talke to endure,
Thou art as deafe euen as thy god is blinde,
sike as the Saint, sike is the seruiture:
But wilt thou heare a good olde Minstrels song,
A medicine for such as been with loue ystong.
Batte.
Borrill, sing on I pray thee let vs heare,
that I may laugh to see thee shake thy beard,
But take heede Borrill that thy voyce be cleare,
or by my hood thou’lt make vs all afeard,
Or els I doubt that thou wilt fright our flockes,
When they shall heare thee barke so like a foxe.
Borrill.
Oh spight full way ward wretched loue,
Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,
Heauens and earth thy plagues do proue,
Gods and men haue cause to curse thee.
Thoughts griefe, hearts woe,
Hopes paine, bodies languish,
Enutes rage, sleepes foe,
Fancies fraud, soules anguish,
Desires dread, mindes madnes,
Secrets be wrayer, natures error,
Sights deceit, sullens sadnes,
Speeches expence, Cupids terror,
Malcontents melancholly,
Liues slaughter, deaths nurse,
Cares slaue, dotards folly,
Fortunes bayte, worlds curse,
Lookes theft, eyes blindnes,
Selfes will, tongues treason,
Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes,
Furies frensie, follies reason:
With cursing thee as I began,
Cursing thee I make an end,
Neither God, neither man,
Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.
Batte.
Ah worthy Borrill, here’s a goodly song,
now by my belt I neuer heard a worse:
Olde doting foole, for shame hold thou thy tongue,
I would thy clap were shut vp in my purse.
It is thy life, if thou mayst scolde and braule:
Yet in thy words there is no wit at all.
And for that wrong which thou to loue hast done,
I will aueng me at this present time,
And in such forte as now thou hast begonne,
I will repeat a carowlet in rime,
Where, Borrill, I vnto thy teeth will proue,
That all my good consisteth in my loue.
Borrill.
Come on good Batte, I pray thee let vs heare?
Much will be sayd, and neuer a whit the near.
Batte.
Loue is the heauens fayre aspect, loue is the glorie of the earth,
Loue only doth our liues direct, loue is our guyder from our birth,
Loue taught my thoughts at first to flie, loue taught mme eyes the way to loue,
Loue raysed my conceit so hie, loue framd my hand his arte to proue.
Loue taught my Muse her perfect skill, loue gaue me first to Poesies
Loue is the Soueraigne of my will, loue bound me first to loyalty.
Loue was the first that fram’d my speech, loue was the first that gaue me grace:
Loue is my life and fortunes leech, loue made the vertuous giue me place.
Loue is the end of my desire, loue is the loadstarre of my loue,
Loue makes my selfe, my selfe admire, loue seated my delights aboue.
Loue placed honor in my brest, loue made me learnings fauoret,
Loue made me liked of the best, loue first my minde on vertue set.
Loue is my life, life is my loue, loue is my whole felicity,
Loue is my sweete, sweete is my loue, I am in loue, and loue in me.
Borrill.
Is loue in thee? alas poore sillie lad, thou neuer couldst haue lodg’d a worser guest,
For where he rules no reason can be had, so is he still sworne enemie to rest:
It pitties me to thinke thy springing yeares,
Should still be spent with woes, with sighes, with teares.
Batte.
Gramercy Borrill for thy company, for all thy iestes and all thy merrie Bourds,
I still shall long vntill I be with thee, because I find some wisdome in thy words,
But I will watch the next time thou doost ward, (heard.
And sing thee such a lay of loue as neuer shepheard
THE EIGHTH EGLOG.
Good Gorbo of the golden world,
and Saturns raigne doth tell,
And afterward doth make reporte,
of bonnie Dowsabell.
Motto.
SHEPHEARD why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
as though our muse no store at all affordes,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolicke swayne,
and strut the stage with reperfumed wordes.
See how these yonkers raue it out in rime,
who make a traffique of their rarest wits,
And in Bellonas buskin tread it fine,
like Bacchus priests raging in franticke fits.
Those mirtle Groues decay’d, done growe againe,
their rootes refresht with Heliconas spring,
Whose pleasant shade inuites the homely swayne,
to sit him downe and heare the Muses sing.
Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeale,
with Iuie twist thy temples shall be crownd,
Or if she dares hoyse vp top-gallant sayle,
Amongst the rest, then may she be renownd.
Gorbe.
My boy, these yonkers reachen after fame,
and so done presse into the learned troupe,
With fi
led quill to glorifie their name,
which otherwise were pend in shamefull coupe.
But this hie obiect hath abiected me,
and I must pipe amongst the lowly sorte,
Those little heard-groomes who admir’d to see,
when I by Moone-shine made the fayries sporte.
Who dares describe the toyles of Hercules,
and puts his hand to fames eternall penne,
Must inuocate the soule of Hercules,
attended with the troupes of conquered men.
Who writes of thrice renowmed Theseus,
a monster-tamers rare description,
Trophies the iawes of vglie Cerberus,
and paynts out Styx, and fiery Acheron.
My Muse may not affect night-charming spels,
whose force effects th’ Olympicke vault to quake,
Nor call those grysly Goblins from their Cels,
the euer-damned frye of Limbo lake.
And who erects the braue Pyramides,
of Monarches or renowned warriours,
Neede bath his quill for such attempts as these,
in flowing streames of learned Maros showres.
For when the great worlds conquerer began,
to proue his helmet and his habergeon,
The sweat that from the Poets-God Orpheus ran,
foretold his Prophets had to play vpon.
When Pens and Launces sawe the Olympiad prize,
those chariot triumphes with the Lawrell crowne,
Then gan the worthies glorie first to rise,
and plumes were vayled to the purple gowne.
The grauest Censor, sagest Senator,
with wings of Iustice and Religion,
Mounted the top of Nimrods statelie Tower,
soring vnto that hie celestiall throne:
Where blessed Angels in their heauenly queares,
chaunt Anthemes with shrill Syren harmonie,
Tun’d to the sound of those aye-crouding sphears,
Which herien their makers eternitie.
Those who foretell the times of vnborne men,
and future things in foretime augured,
Haue slumbred in that spell-gods darkest den,
which first inspir’d his prophesiyng head.
Sooth-saying Sibels sleepen long agone,
we haue their reede, but few haue cond their Arte,
Welch-wisard Merlyn, cleueth to a stone,
no Oracle more wonders may impart.
The Infant age could deftly caroll loue,
till greedy thirst of that ambitious honor,
Drew Poets pen, from his sweete lasses gloue,
to chaunt of slaughtering broiles & bloody horror.
Then Ioues loue-theft was priuily discri’d,
how he playd false play in Amphitrios bed,
And how Apollo in the mount of Ide,
gaue Oenon phisick for her maydenhead.
The tender grasse was then the softest bed,
the pleasant’st shades were deem’d the statelyest hals,
No belly-god with Bacchus banqueted,
nor paynted ragges then couered rotten wals.
Then simple loue with simple vertue way’d,
flowers the fauours which true fayth reuayled,
Kindnes with kindnes was againe repay’d,
with sweetest kisses couenants were sealed.
Then beauties selfe with her selfe beautified,
scornd payntings pergit, and the borrowed hayre,
Nor monstrous formes deformities did hide,
nor foule was vernisht with compounded fayre.
The purest fleece then couered purest skin,
for pride as then with Lucifer remaynd:
Deformed fashions now were to begin,
nor clothes were yet with poysned liquor staynd.
But when the bowels of the earth were sought,
and men her golden intrayles did espie,
This mischiefe then into the world was brought,
this fram’d the mint which coynd our miserie.
Then lofty Pines were by ambition hewne,
and men sea-monsters swamme the brackish flood,
In waynscot tubs, to seeke out worlds vnknowne,
for certain ill to leaue assured good.
The starteling steede is manag’d from the field,
and serues a subiect to the riders lawes,
He whom the churlish bit did neuer weeld,
now feels the courb controll his angrie iawes.
The hammering Uulcane spent his wasting fire,
till he the vse of tempred mettals found,
His anuile wrought the steeled cotes attire,
and forged tooles to carue the foe-mans wound.
The Citie builder then intrencht his towres,
and wald his wealth within the fenced towne,
Which afterward in bloudy stormy stours,
kindled that flame which burnt his Bulwarks downe.
And thus began th’ Exordium of our woes,
the fatall dumbe shewe of our miserie:
Here sprang the tree on which our mischiefe growes,
the drery subiect of worlds tragedie.
Motto.
Well, shepheard well, the golden age is gone,
wishes may not reuoke that which is past:
It were no wit to make two griefes of one,
our prouerb sayth, Nothing can alwayes last.
Listen to me my louely shepheards ioye,
and thou shalt heare with mirth and mickle glee,
A pretie Tale, which when I was a boy,
my toothles Grandame oft hath tolde to me.
Corbo.
Shepheard say on, so may we passe the time,
There is no doubt it is some worthy ryme.
Motto.
Farre in the countrey of Arden,
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
as bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
as was the good sir Topas.
He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
a may den fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
of mickle curtesie.
The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
and with the needle werke,
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
and sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well be seeme a mayden Queene,
which seemly was to see.
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
ywrought full featuously.
Her feature all as fresh aboue,
As is the grasse that growes by Doue,
as lyth as lasse of Kent:
Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on peakish hull,
or Swanne that swims in Trent.
This mayden in a morne betime,
Went forth when May was in her prime,
to get sweete Cerywall,
The hony-suckle, the Harlocke,
The Lilly and the Lady-smocke,
to deck her summer hall.
Thus as she wandred here and there,
Ypicking of the bloomed Breere,
she chanced to espie
A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like Chanteclere he crowed crancke,
and pip’d with merrie glee:
He leard his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
to feede about him round:
Whilst he full many a caroll sung,
Vntill the fields and medowes rung,
and that the woods did sound:
In fauour this sam
e shepheards swayne,
was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,
which helde prowd Kings in awe:
But meeke he was as Lamb mought be,
Ylike that gentle Abel he,
whom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke,
which was of the finest loke,
that could be cut with sheere,
His mittens were of Bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of Cordiwin,
his hood of Meniueere.
His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
his breech of Coyntrie blew:
Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks,
so like a louer true.
And pyping still he spent the day,
So mery as the Popingay:
which liked Dowsabell,
That would she ought or would she nought,
This lad would neuer from her thought:
she in loue-longing fell,
At length she tucked vp her frocke,
White as the Lilly was her smocke,
she drew the shepheard nie,
But then the shepheard pyp’d a good,
That all his sheepe for sooke their foode,
to heare his melodie.
Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane,
That haue a iolly shepheards swayne,
the which can pipe so well.
Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away,
in loue of Dowsabell.
Of loue fond boy take thou no keepe,
Quoth she, looke well vnto thy sheepe,
lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seene fayre Dowsabell,
come forth to gather Maye.
With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheekes were like the Roses red,
but not a word she sayd.
With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
and on the ground him layd.
Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leaue my summer hall vndight,
and all for long of thee.
My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde,
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
except thou fauour me.
Sayth she yet leuer I were dead,
Then I should lose my maydenhead,
and all for loue of men:
Sayth he yet are you too vnkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde,
to loue vs now and then:
And I to thee will be as kinde,
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
of curtesie the flower:
Then will I be as true quoth she,
As euer mayden yet might be,
vnto her Paramour:
With that she bent her snow-white knee,