Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works

by Michael Drayton

  His soule assaulted with a thousand feares,

  As many sundry passions come and goe;

  His thoughts, vncertaine, wandring too and froe.

  At length, this fearefull extasie ore-past,

  Grones from his soule this passion at the last.

  159

  O Heauens (quoth he) why was I borne accurst?

  This onely comfort to mine age was left:

  But to despite me, you haue done your worst,

  And me of all my worldly ioyes bereft:

  I quite vndone by your deceitfull theft.

  This was the Iewell I esteemed most,

  And loosing this, now all my treasurs lost.

  160

  Yee powers Diuine, if you be cleane and chast,

  In whom alone consists eternitie,

  Why suffer you, your owne to be disgras’t,

  Subiect to death and black impuritie?

  If in your shield be no securitie?

  If so for Vertue these rewards be due?

  Who shall adore, or who shall honour you?

  161

  What ment you, first to giue her vitall breath,

  Or make the world proud by her blessed birth,

  Predestinating this vntimelie death,

  And of her presence to depriue the earth?

  O fruitlesse age, now staru’d with Vertues dearth.

  Or if you long’d to haue her companie,

  O why by poyson would you let her die?

  162

  O Soile, with drops of mercy once bedew’d,

  When iust men were instauled in thy throne,

  But now with blood of Innocents imbrew’d,

  Stayning the glory of fayre Albion,

  O lustfull Monster, ô accursed Iohn.

  O heauens, to whom should men for iustice cry,

  When Kings themselues thus raigne by tyrannie?

  163

  O gyue me wings Reuenge, I will ascend

  And fetch her soule againe, out of their power;

  From them proceeded this vntimely end,

  Who tooke her hence before her dying hower

  And rays’d that clowd which rayn’d this bloodie shower.

  And fro the graue Ile dig her body vp,

  Which had her bane by that vile poysoned cup

  164

  O pardon Heauens these sacriligious words,

  This irreligious open blasphemie:

  My wretched soule no better now affords,

  Such is the passion of mine agonie,

  My desperate case in this extremitie.

  You harbour those which euer like you best,

  With blessed Angels let her spirit rest.

  165

  No, no, Ile practise by some secret Art,

  How to infect his pure life-breathing ayre,

  Or else Ile sheath my poyniard in his hart,

  Or with strong poyson Ile annoynt his Chayre:

  Or by inchauntment, will his dayes impayre.

  O no, reuenge to God alone belongs,

  And it is he which must reuenge my wrongs.

  166

  Griefe would’st thou wound a world of humaine harts,

  And yet not furnish’d with artillerie,

  Of my care-dryed bones then make thee darts,

  And point them with my sorrow poysoned eye,

  Which hitting right shall make euen death to dye.

  That thou thine Ebon bowe shalt neuer drawe,

  But black despaire himselfe shall stand in awe.

  167

  O heauens, perforce we must attend your time,

  Our succours must awaite vpon you still,

  In your iust waights you ballance euery crime,

  For vs you know what’s good, and what is ill;

  Who vnderstands your deepe and secret skill?

  In you alone our destenies consist,

  Then who is he which can your power resist?

  168

  O, could my sighes againe but giue thee breath,

  Or were my tears such balme as could restore thee,

  Or could my life redeeme thee from this death,

  Or were my prayers, but inuocations worthy:

  Sighs, tears, life, prayers, were all to little for thee.

  But since the heauen, thus of my child disposeth,

  Ah me, thy Tombe now all my ioyes incloseth.

  169

  But Death is proud, and scorneth to be Death,

  Her smiling beautie did his heate aswage,

  And is so much enrich’d with her sweet breath,

  As he doth scorne mine o’re-worne wrinkled age,

  Though with contempt I moue him still to rage.

  But as thou lou’st her death, for her sweet sake,

  As thou took’st her from me, me to her take.

  170

  O what a wonder shall thy valure bring?

  What admiration to posteritie?

  What rare examples from thy vertues spring:

  O what a glorie to thy Progenie,

  To be engrau’d in lasting memorie,

  When as applauding Fame in euery Coast,

  Shall thus in honor of Fitzwaters boast?

  171

  England, when peace vpon thy shores shall flourish,

  And that pure Maiden sit vpon thy Throne

  Which in her bosome shall the Muses nourish,

  Whose glorious fame shall through the world be blowne,

  (O blessed Ile, thrice happy Albion)

  Then let thy Poets in their stately rimes,

  Sing forth her praises to succeeding times.

  182

  Euen like the roote of some large branched Oake,

  Whose body by some storme is ouer-borne,

  Euen with such horror be mine entrailes broke,

  As when that roote out of the ground is torne:

  And with such wofull horror let them mourne,

  As with ye shreeks each liuing thing may wound,

  Euen as the Mandrake torne out of the ground.

  183

  BY this, the Kings vile bloody rage is past,

  And gentle time his choller dooth digest,

  The fire consumes his substance at the last,

  The griefe asswag’d which did his spirit molest,

  That fiend cast out wherewith he was possest:

  And now he feeles thys horror in his soule,

  Whe lothsome shame his actions doth cotroule.

  174

  Black hell-bred-humor of reuenging sin,

  By whose inticements, murder we commit,

  The end vnthought of rashlie we begin,

  Letting our passion ouer-rule our wit,

  Missing the marke which most we ayme to hit:

  Clogging our soules with such a masse of care,

  As casts vs downe oft times to deepe Dispaire.

  175

  Traytor to Vertue, Reprobate (quoth hee)

  As for a King, no more vsurpe the name:

  Staine to all honor and gentilitie,

  Mark’d in the face with th’yron of Defame:

  The Picture of all infamie and shame.

  Dispis’d of men, abhord in euery place,

  Hate to thy selfe, the very worlds disgrace.

  176

  When all thy race shall be in tryumph set,

  Their royall conquests and atchiuements done,

  Henrie thy Father, braue Plantaginet,

  Thy conquering Brother, Lyon-hart his sonne,

  The crownes & spoiles, these famous Champions won

  This still shall be in thy dishonour said,

  Loe, this was Iohn, the murderer of a Maid.

  177

  Looke I to heauen, her purenes tells my sin,

  Looke I on man, hee frownes with hatefull sight,

  Looke I on earth, I see my fault therein,

  The light to view my shame, doth giue me light,

  The night puts me in mind of my fames night:

  I read m
y shame in all things as a booke,

  And yet most grieu’d when on my selfe I looke.

  178

  This act enrold in booke of black Defame,

  Where, men of death & tragick murders reed,

  Recorded in the Register of shame,

  In lines whose letters freshly euer bleed,

  Where all the world shall wonder my misdeed,

  And quote the place, (thus euer) passing by,

  Note heere King Iohns vile damned tyranny.

  179

  Her blood exhal’d from earth vnto the sky,

  A fearfull Meteor still hangs ore my head,

  Stayning the heauens with her Vermilion dye,

  Changing the Sunnes bright rayes to gorie red,

  Prognosticating death and fearfull dread;

  Her soule, with howling, & reuengfull steuen,

  Shreeking before the christall gates of Heauen.

  180

  Whose sacred Counsell, now in iudgment set,

  And shee, before them stands to plead her case,

  Her drearie words in bloodie tears are wet,

  The euidence appears before my face,

  And I condemn’d a catife wanting grace;

  Iustice cryes out vpon this sinfull deed,

  And to my death the fatall starrs proceed.

  181

  Earth, swallow me, and hide me in thy wombe,

  O let my shame in thy deepe Center dwell,

  Wrap vp this murder in my wretched tombe,

  Let tender mercy stop the gates of hell,

  And with sweet drops this furious heat expell:

  O let repentance iust reuenge appease,

  And let my soule, in torment find some ease.

  182

  O, no: her tears are now become a flood,

  And as they rise, increasing mine offence;

  And now the shedding of her guiltlesse blood,

  Euen like a Cankar, gnawes my conscience:

  O, ther’s my griefe, my paine proceeds fro thence.

  Yet neuer time wears out this filthy staine,

  And I dishonor’d euer shall remaine.

  183

  Fame in her death, shame in me tooke her birth,

  That shame in dying, till her fame be dead,

  My sinne on earth, whilst shee is in the earth,

  And by her fall, my fault will still be fed,

  My black more black, my red be made more red,

  Her no, my I, her was, my wicked is,

  Her good, my ill, my basenes be her blisse.

  184

  Then doe I vow a solemne pylgrimage,

  Before my wretched miserable end;

  This doone, betake me to some Hermitage,

  Where I the remnant of my daies will spend,

  Where almes and prayer I euer will attend,

  And on the Tombe at last, where thou dost lie,

  When all is done, Ile lay mee downe and die.

  185

  And for his pennance, lastly he deuis’d,

  Monthly to Dunmow would he take his way,

  And in a simple Palmers weede disguis’d,

  With deep deuotion kneele him downe to pray:

  Kissing the place whereas my body lay:

  Washing my Tombe with his repentant tears,

  And being wet, yet dry’d it with his hairs.

  FINIS

  ENDIMION AND PHOEBE

  ENDIMION & PHOEBE

  Ideas Latmus

  IN Ionia whence sprang old poets fame.

  From whom that sea did first derive her name,

  The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,

  Beauty of Greece, the pride of Asia,

  Whence Archelaus whom times historifie, 5

  First unto Athens brought phylosophie.

  In this faire region on a goodly plaine,

  Stretching her bounds unto the bordring maine,

  The mountaine Latmus over-lookes the sea,

  Smiling to see the ocean billowes play: 10

  Latmus, where young Endimion usd to keepe

  His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheepe.

  To whom Silvanus often would resort,

  At barly-breake to see the satyres sport;

  And when rude Pan his tabret list to sound, 15

  To see the faire nymphes foote it in a round,

  Under the trees which on this mountaine grew,

  As yet the like Arabia never knew:

  For all the pleasures Nature could devise,

  Within this plot she did imparadize; 20

  And great Diana of her speciall grace,

  With vestall rytes had hallowed all the place:

  Upon this mount there stood a stately grove,

  Whose reaching armes, to clip the welkin strove,

  Of tufted cedars, and the branching pine, 25

  Whose bushy tops themselves doe so intwine,

  As seem’d when Nature first this work begun,

  Shee then conspir’d against the piercing sun;

  Under whose covert (thus divinely made)

  Phoebus greene laurell florisht in the shade: 30

  Faire Venus mirtile, Mars his warlike fyrre,

  Minervas olive, and the weeping myrhe,

  The patient palme, which thrives in spite of hate,

  The popler, to Alcides consecrate;

  Which nature in such order had disposed, 35

  And there-withall these goodly walkes inclosed,

  As serv’d for hangings and rich tapestry,

  To beautifie this stately gallery:

  Imbraudring these in curious trailes along,

  The clustred grapes, the golden citrons hung, 40

  More glorious then the precious fruite were these,

  Kept by the dragon in Hesperides;

  Or gorgious arras in rich colours wrought,

  With silk from Affrick, or from Indie brought:

  Out of thys soyle sweet bubling fountains crept, 45

  As though for joy the sencelesse stones had wept;

  With straying channels dauncing sundry waves,

  With often turnes, like to a curious maze:

  Which breaking forth, the tender grasse bedewed,

  Whose silver sand with orient pearle was strewed, 50

  Shadowed with roses and sweet eglantine,

  Dipping theyr sprayes into this christalline:

  From which the byrds the purple berries pruned,

  And to theyr loves their small recorders tuned.

  The nightingale, woods herauld of the spring, 55

  The whistling woosell, mavis carroling,

  Tuning theyr trebbles to the waters fall,

  Which made the musicque more angelicall:

  Whilst gentle Zephyre murmuring among,

  Kept tyme, and bare the burthen to the song. 60

  About whose brims, refresht with dainty showers,

  Grew amaranthus, and sweet gilliflowers,

  The marigold, Phoebus beloved frend,

  The moly, which from sorcery doth defend:

  Violet, carnation, balme and cassia, 65

  Ideas primrose, coronet of May.

  Above this grove a gentle faire ascent,

  Which by degrees of milk-white marble went:

  Upon the top, a paradise was found,

  With which, Nature this miracle had crownd; 70

  Empald with rocks of rarest precious stone,

  Which like the flames of Aetna brightly shone;

  And serv’d as lanthornes furnished with light,

  To guide the wandring passengers by night:

  For which fayre Phoebe sliding from her sphere, 75

  Used oft times to come and sport her there.

  And from the azure starry-painted sky,

  Embalmd the bancks with precious lunary:

  That now her Menalus shee quite forsooke,

  And unto Latmus wholy her betooke, 80

  And in this place her pleasure us’d to take,

  And al
l was for her sweet Endimions sake:

  Endimion, the lovely shepheards boy,

  Endimion, great Phoebes onely joy,

  Endimion, in whose pure-shining eyes, 85

  The naked faries daunst the heydegies.

  The shag-haird satyrs mountain-climing race,

  Have been made tame by gazing in his face.

  For this boyes love, the water-nymphs have wept

  Stealing oft times to kisse him whilst he slept: 90

  And tasting once the nectar of his breath,

  Surfet with sweet, and languish unto death;

  And Jove oft-times bent to lascivious sport,

  And comming where Endimion did resort,

  Hath courted him, inflamed with desire, 95

  Thinking some nymph was cloth’d in boyes attire.

  And often-times the simple rural swaines,

  Beholding him in crossing or’e the plaines,

  Imagined, Apollo from above

  Put on this shape, to win some maidens love. 100

  This shepheard, Phoebe ever did behold,

  Whose love already had her thoughts controld;

  From Latmus top (her stately throne) shee rose,

  And to Endimion downe beneath shee goes.

  Her brothers beames now had she layd aside, 105

  Her horned cressent, and her full-fac’d pride:

  For had shee come adorned with her light,

  No mortall eye could have endur’d the sight;

  But like a nymph, crown’d with a flowrie twine,

  And not like Phoebe, as herselfe divine. 110

  An azur’d mantle purfled with a vaile,

  Which in the ayre puft like a swelling saile,

  Embosted rayne-bowes did appeare in silk,

  With wavie streames as white as mornings milk:

  Which ever as the gentle ayre did blow, 115

  Still with the motion seem’d to ebb and flow:

  About her neck a chayne twise twenty fold,

  Of rubyes, set in lozenges of gold;

  Trust up in trammels, and in curious pleats,

  With spheary circles falling on her teats. 120

  A dainty smock of cipresse, fine and thin,

  Or’e cast with curls next to her lilly skin:

  Throgh which the purenes of the same did show

  Lyke damaske-roses strew’d with flakes of snow,

  Discovering all her stomack to the waste, 125

  With branches of sweet circling veynes enchaste.

  A coronet she ware of mirtle bowes,

  Which gave a shadow to her ivory browes.

  No smother beauty maske did beauty smother

  ‘Great lights dim lesse yet burn not one another, 130

  Nature abhorrs to borrow from the mart,

  ‘Simples fit beauty, fie on drugs and art.

  Thus came shee where her love Endimion lay,

  Who with sweet carrols sang the night away;

  And as it is the shepheards usuall trade, 135