6
Weary, at length a Willow tree I found,
Which on the brim of this great current stood,
Whose roote was matted with the arrasd ground,
Deaw’d with the small drops of this surging flood,
Ordain’d it seem’d to sport her Nymphish brood
Whose curled top, enuy’d the heauens great eye
Should view the stock shee was maintained by.
7
The towring Larke which carrols to the Sun,
With trebling descant quauers in the ayre,
And on the riuers marmuring base doth run,
The Marble-skyes, with checker’d varnish faire,
My branch-embossed bed, of natures care;
The flowers my smell, the slood my thirst to steep,
Thus like a King, with pleasure rock’d a sleepe.
8
When in a dreame it seemed vnto mee
A noyse of trumpets from the flood arose,
As when great BETA in her pompe wee see,
When shee by London on the water goes,
The dauncing Barge with silent musick rowes:
The people thronging on the wharfes & shores,
The ayre with shouts, the water fill’d with oares.
9
A troope of Nymphes came suddainly on land,
When thus was ended this tryumphant sound,
Encompassing mee, lying on the strand,
Taking theyr places on the grassy ground,
Theyr ory tresses all with Laurell crown’d,
Casting theyr sober modest eyes a space,
Vpon my swarty mellancholly face.
10
Betwixt two Ladies came a goodly Knight,
As newly brought from some distresfull place,
It seem’d to mee he was some noble wight,
Though his attyre were miserable and base,
And care made furrowes in his manly face:
And though cold age had frosted his faire haires,
It rather seem’d for sorrow then for yeares.
11
The one a princely Lady did support
This feeble Image which coulde sarcly stand:
The other, fleering in disdainfull sort,
With scornefull iesture drew him by the hand,
Who being blind, yet bound with many a band.
At length, I found this proude disdainefull Dame
Was FORTVNE, and the other, glorious FAME.
12
FAME on his right hand, in a robe of gold,
Whose stately trayne, Time as her Page did beare,
On which, for rich embrawdery was enrold,
The deedes of all the Worthies euer were,
So strogly wrought, as wrong could not empeire,
Whose large memorialls shee did still rehearse,
In Poets man-immortalizing verse.
13
Two Tables on her goodly breast shee bore,
The one of Christall, th’other Ebony,
Engrau’d with names of all that liu’d before
That; the faire booke of heauenly memory,
Th’other, the black scrowle of infamy:
One stuffd with Poets, Saints, & Conquerers,
Th’other with Atheists, Tyrants, Vsurers.
14
And in her words appeared as a wonder,
Her during force, and neuer-failing might,
Which softly spake, farre of were as a thunder,
And round about the world wold take their flight,
And bring the most obscurest things to light;
That still the farther of, the greater still
Did euer sound our good, or make our ill.
15
Fortune, as blinde as he whom she doth leade,
Her feature chang’d each minute of the hower,
Her riggish feet fantastickly would tread,
Now would shee smile, & suddainly would lower,
And wt one breth, her words were sweet & sower.
Vpon her foes, she amorously would glaunce,
And on her followers, coylie looke a scaunce.
16
About her necke, (it seem’d as for a chaine)
Some Princes crownes & broken scepters hong,
Vpon her arme a lazie youth did leane,
Which scornfully vnto the ground shee flong;
And with a wanton grace passing along,
Great bags of gold from out her bosome drew,
And to base Pesants and fond Ideots threw.
17
A dusky vaile which hid her sightles eyes,
Like clowds, which couer our vncertaine liues,
Painted about with bloody Tragedies,
Fooles wearing crownes, & wisemen clogd in giues,
Now, how she giues, againe, how she depriues;
In this black Map thus shee her might discouers,
In Campes, and Courts, on soldiers, kings, & louers.
18
An easie rysing little banck there was,
The seate fayre FLORA somtime sat vpon,
Curling her locks in louely Isis glasse,
To reuell in the Springs pauilion,
Here was her court, and this her princly throne;
Here set they downe this poore distressed man,
And in this sort proude Fortune first began.
19
Behold (quoth she) this Duke of Normandy,
The heire of William, Conqueror of this Ile,
Which thou poore Fame hast vow’d to glorifie,
Whose history this Poet must compile;
My slaue, my scorne, my prisoner, an exile,
Whose life I mark’d with my black dismall brand,
And thou would’st now eternize with thy hand.
20
Thou art an Eccho, a by-word, a wind,
Thine ayrie bodie is composd of breath,
A wandring blast, within no place confin’d,
Which oft of nothing, silly somthing saith,
Yet neuer canst speake well till after death;
And from imagination hast thy birth,
Vnknowne in heauen, & vnperceiu’d on earth.
21
First, in opinion had’st thou thy creation,
Form’d with conceit, the needy Poets frend,
And like opinion, keep’st no certaine fashion,
Yet in a circle still thy course doth end:
And but a Post which all base rumors send,
An needles burden of an idle song,
The prophane accent of each witles tongue.
22
Slaunders vile spy, a runnagate, a thiefe,
Which day and night in euery chinck doth peepe,
A blab, a wanton, lightest of beliefe,
Nor in thy gate a meane doost euer keepe,
But now hie in the ayre, now in the deepe;
Reporting that which thou doost but suppose,
And telling that thou neuer should’st disclose.
23
With extreame toyle and labour thou art sought,
Danger the way that leadeth to thy Cell,
Onely with death thy fauours must be bought,
And who obtaines thee, fetcheth thee from hell,
Where thou ensconst wt fiery swords dost dwell.
And when thou art with all this perrill found,
Thou art a suddaine voice, a tinckling sound.
24
My out-cast abiects, such as I disgrace,
And euer-more haue held in hatefull scorne,
And in the world haue set in seruile place,
These be thy fauorits, these thou doost subborne,
These wait on Fame, whose weeds be neerly worne
Yet cannot these poore wretches come to thee,
Vnlesse before they be preferr’d by mee.
25
That trump thou saist, wakes dead men from theyr traunce
Is not of precious gold as some do de
eme,
A brazen pipe, by which vaine fooles do daunce,
And but to sound so loude doth onely seeme,
Sith points of vertue no man doth esteeme,
And with this toy the idle braine abusest,
And so their folly and thy fault excusest.
26
Except in perrill, thou doost not appeare,
And yet in perrill ebbing still and flowing,
Flying from him that seeth succour neere,
Diminished at hand, augmented going,
On fertile stocks decay’d, on barraine growing.
Lost life with rumors thou doost but repayre,
And what thou promisest, thou payest with ayre.
27
In balefull Hearses, sad and sable grounds,
On gory letters thy memorialls lye,
Thy lines are deepe immedicable wounds,
And towards the dust thou point’st thy tearful eye,
Neuer discouer’d but in Tragedy:
Thy stony hart is pittifull to none,
But Syren-like, to their destruction.
28
This orbes great reuolution knowes my power,
And how I raigne with the eternall Fates,
With whom I sit in counsell euery howre,
On change of times, subuersion of states,
On their beginnings, on their seuerall dates,
In destining haps past, on things to come,
In iudgement till the euerlasting dome.
29
The starrs my Table-bookes wherein I write,
My Register the spacious circling Sky,
On heauens great brow I carefully endite
Vnhappy mans long birth-markt desteny,
And by my power, my lawes I ratefy,
And his fraile will imperiously controule,
With such quaint clauses as I there enroule.
30
To me the heauens haue theyr Commission giuen,
And in my Charter all their right compil’d,
That I alone should blesse as beautious heauen,
And honor those on whom I meane to smile,
To gaine them tytles of immortall stile,
That all should worthy be which I bestow,
Nor reason vrg’d, but for I thinke it so.
31
In great predestination is my beeing,
Whose depth yet wisdom neuer could discerne,
And in her secrets, more then secrets seeing,
Where learning stil may learne how still to learne,
Those points wt do the deepest points conscerne,
Where sacred texts vnlock the way to me,
To lighten those which will my glory see.
32
What names old Poets to their gods did giue,
Were onely figures to expresse my might,
To shew the vertues that in mee doe liue,
My onely power on this all-moouing wight,
And all their Alters vnto mee were dight:
Whose wondrous working, stil to times did bring
Matter whereon they euer-more might sing.
33
Still most vncertaine varying in my course,
Yet in these changes hold one certaine end,
Crossing mans fore-cast, weakning wisdoms force,
To none still foe, to none a perfect frend,
Amazing thought to thinke what I pretend.
Depressing vertue sometime, that thereby
Shee taking wing againe may sore on hie.
34
Forth of my lap I poure aboundant blisse,
All good proceedes from my all-giuing hand,
By me man happie, or vnhappie is,
Blest if I blesse, repuls’d if I with-stand,
And I alone am friendships onely band;
Vpon whose Lincks all greedely take hold,
Which being broke, our zealous faith growes cold.
35
Pawsing shee strownes, when sudainly againe,
A roaring noyse ariseth from the flood,
As when a tempest with a shower of raine
Is heard far off within some mightie wood,
At which me thought all things amazed stood:
As though her words such power with them did beare
As Sea & Land did quake her voice to heare.
36
When Fame yet smiling mildly thus replyes,
Alasse (quoth shee) what labour thou hast lost,
What wondrous mists thou casts before our eyes,
Yet will the gaine not counteruaile the cost.
What couldst yu say if thou hadst cause to boast:
Which thus canst paint such woders of thy worth,
Yet art far lesse, then nothing can set forth.
37
A hap, a chaunce, a casuall euent,
The vulgars I doll, and a childish terror,
A what men will, a silly accedent,
The maske of blindnesse, and disguise of error,
Natures vile nickname, sollies foolish mirror;
A tearme, a by-word, by tradition learn’d,
A hearesay, nothing, not to be discern’d.
38
A wanton feare, a silly Infants dreame,
A vaine illusion, a meere fantasie,
A seeming shade, a lunatick mans theame:
A fond Aenigma, a flat heresie,
Imaginations doting trumperie;
A folly in it selfe, it one selfe lothing,
A thing that would be, and yet can be nothing.
39
Disease of time, Ambitions Concubine,
A minde-entrauncing snare, a slippery Ice,
The baite of death, destructions heady wine,
Vaine-glories Patron, the fooles paradice,
Fond hope, wherewith confusion doth entice;
A vile seducing fiend, which haunts men still,
To loose them in the errors of their will.
40
A reason, which no reason can discusse,
And hast the ground of all thy strength fro hence,
Walking in shadow of mans Genius,
In humane birth pretending residence;
A riddle, made of the starrs influence,
Which good and euill doost thy title frame,
Yet neither good nor euill, but in name.
41
Those ignorant which made a God of Nature,
And Natures God diuinely neuer knew,
Were those which first erected Fortunes stature,
From whence this vile idolatry first grew,
Which times defect into mens eares still blew:
Grounding their vsurpations foolish lawes,
On the opinion of so poore a cause.
42
Sloth first did hatch thee in her sleepie Cell,
And with base thoughts, in idlenes wast bred,
With cowardize thou euer-more doost dwell,
And with dishonourable ease art fed,
In superstitious humors brought to bed:
A gossips tale thy greatest proofe doth lend,
On old-sayd sawes thy tytle doth depend.
43
Thy habit loosenes, and thy measure wast,
Deceitfull, vaine, inhumane, sickle, light,
Thou poysonest him to whom thou giu’st to tast,
Gainst vertue still thou bendest all thy might,
With honourable thoughts thou wagest fighte,
The yeelding man, in fetters thou doost binde,
But weake and slauish to the constant minde.
44
Who leanes to thee, who thou hast not deceiu’d?
Who slattrest thou, whom thou abusest not?
Who hopes of thee, and not of hope bereau’d?
whose secrets known, wt shame do’st thou not blot?
Who not deuour’d, thou in thy pawes hast got?
Who’s he, or where yet euer was he found,
That thou might’st h
urt, & didst not deadly wound?
45
The slauish peasant is thy fauorite,
In chaunge and chaunces all thy glory is,
In vile and basest things thou tak’st delite,
In earthly mud consisteth all thy blisse,
What canst thou be which art bewitch’d with this?
For weart thou heauenly, thou in loue wouldst be,
With that which neerest doth resemble thee.
46
I am the powerfull messenger of heauen,
My wings the lightning spreading farre & wide,
To euery coast I with a thought am driuen,
And on the gorgeous sun-beames doe I ride,
To heauen I mount, downe to the earth I slide:
I regester the worlds eternall howers,
The Secretarie of the immortall powers.
47
Refuge of hope, the harbinger of truth,
Handmaide of heauen, vertues skilfull guide,
The life of life, the ages of springing youth,
Triumph of ioy, eternities faire bride,
The Virgins glory, and the Martirs pride:
The courages immortall raysing fier,
The very height to which great thoughts aspire.
48
The staire by which men to the Starres doe clime,
The minds first moouer, greatnes to expresse,
Fayths armour, and the vanquisher of time,
A pleasant sweete against deaths bitternes,
The high reward which doth all labours blesse;
The studie which doth heauenly things impart,
The ioy amidst the tedious wayes of Art.
49
Learnings greene Lawrell, Iustice glorious throne,
The Muses chariot, Memories true foode,
The Poets life, the Gods companion,
The fire-reuiuing Phaenix Sun-nurst broode,
The spirits eternall Image, honors good;
The Balsamum which cures the Souldiers scarre,
The world-discouering Sea-mans happy Starre.
50
My dwelling place betwixt the earth and skies,
My Turret vnto heauen her top vpreares,
The windowes made of Lynceus piercing eyes,
And all the walls be made of daintiest eares,
Where euery thing thats done in earth appeares;
No word is whispered in this vaulty round,
But in my Pallace straightwayes it doth sound.
51
The pauement is of ratling brasen drums,
The Rafters trumpets which do rend the aire,
Sounding aloud each name that thither comes,
The chinks like tongues of all things talking there,
And all things past, in memorie doe beare:
The dores vnlock with euery word man faith,
And open wide with euery little breath.
52
It’s hong about with Arms & conquering spoiles,
The pillers which support the roofe of this,
Are tropheis, grauen with Herculean toiles,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 37
