Collected Works of Michael Drayton

by Michael Drayton

  But that which thou affectedst was so true,

  As that thereby thee perfectly I knew;

  And now that spirit, which thou so lou’dst, still mine,

  Shall offer this a Sacrifice to thine,

  And reare this Trophe, which for thee shall last,

  When this most beastly Iron age is past;

  I am perswaded, whilst we two haue slept,

  Our soules haue met, and to each other wept, 30

  That destenie so strongly should forbid,

  Our bodies to conuerse as oft they did:

  For certainly refined spirits doe know,

  As doe the Angels, and doe here belowe

  Take the fruition of that endlesse blisse,

  As those aboue doe, and what each one is.

  They see diuinely, and as those there doe,

  They know each others wills, so soules can too.

  About that dismall time, thy spirit hence flew,

  Mine much was troubled, but why, I not knew, 40

  In dull and sleepy sounds, it often left me,

  As of it selfe it ment to haue bereft me,

  I asked it what the cause was, of such woe,

  Or what it might be, that might vexe it so,

  But it was deafe, nor my demand would here,

  But when that ill newes came, to touch mine eare,

  I straightwayes found this watchfull sperit of mine,

  Troubled had bin to take it leaue of thine,

  For when fate found, what nature late had done,

  How much from heauen, she for the earth had won 50

  By thy deare birth; said, that it could not be

  In so yong yeares, what it perceiu’d in thee,

  But nature sure, had fram’d thee long before;

  And as Rich Misers of their mighty store,

  Keepe the most precious longst, so from times past,

  She onely had reserued thee till the last;

  So did thy wisedome, not thy youth behold,

  And tooke thee hence, in thinking thou wast old.

  Thy shape and beauty often haue to me

  Bin highly praysed, which I thought might be, 60

  Truely reported, for a spirit so braue,

  Which heauen to thee so bountifully gaue;

  Nature could not in recompence againe,

  In some rich lodging but to entertaine.

  Let not the world report then, that the Peake,

  Is but a rude place only vast and bleake;

  And nothing hath to boast of but her Lead,

  When she can say that happily she bred

  Thee, and when she shall of her wonders tell

  Wherein she doth all other Tracts excell, 70

  Let her account thee greatst, and still to time

  Of all the rest, accord thee for the prime.

  TO MAISTER WILLIAM IEFFRYES, CHAPLEINE TO THE LORD AMBASSADOUR IN SPAINE.

  My noble friend, you challenge me to write

  To you in verse, and often you recite,

  My promise to you, and to send you newes;

  As ’tis a thing I very seldome vse,

  And I must write of State, if to Madrid,

  A thing our Proclamations here forbid,

  And that word State such Latitude doth beare,

  As it may make me very well to feare

  To write, nay speake at all, these let you know

  Your power on me, yet not that I will showe 10

  The loue I beare you, in that lofty height,

  So cleere expression, or such words of weight,

  As into Spanish if they were translated,

  Might make the Poets of that Realme amated;

  Yet these my least were, but that you extort

  These numbers from me, when I should report

  In home-spunne prose, in good plaine honest words

  The newes our wofull England vs affords.

  The Muses here sit sad, and mute the while

  A sort of swine vnseasonably defile 20

  Those sacred springs, which from the by-clift hill

  Dropt their pure Nectar into euery quill;

  In this with State, I hope I doe not deale,

  This onely tends the Muses common-weale.

  What canst thou hope, or looke for from his pen,

  Who liues with beasts, though in the shapes of men,

  And what a poore few are we honest still,

  And dare to be so, when all the world is ill.

  I finde this age of our markt with this Fate,

  That honest men are still precipitate 30

  Vnder base villaines, which till th’ earth can vent

  This her last brood, and wholly hath them spent,

  Shall be so, then in reuolution shall

  Vertue againe arise by vices fall;

  But that shall I not see, neither will I

  Maintaine this, as one doth a Prophesie,

  That our King Iames to Rome shall surely goe,

  And from his chaire the Pope shall ouerthrow.

  But O this world is so giuen vp to hell,

  That as the old Giants, which did once rebell, 40

  Against the Gods, so this now-liuing race

  Dare sin, yet stand, and Ieere heauen in the face.

  But soft my Muse, and make a little stay,

  Surely thou art not rightly in thy way,

  To my good Ieffrayes was not I about

  To write, and see, I suddainely am out,

  This is pure Satire, that thou speak’st, and I

  Was first in hand to write an Elegie.

  To tell my countreys shame I not delight.

  But doe bemoane ‘t I am no Democrite: 50

  O God, though Vertue mightily doe grieue

  For all this world, yet will I not beleeue

  But that shees faire and louely, and that she

  So to the period of the world shall be;

  Else had she beene forsaken (sure) of all,

  For that so many sundry mischiefes fall

  Vpon her dayly, and so many take

  Armes vp against her, as it well might make

  Her to forsake her nature, and behind,

  To leaue no step for future time to find, 60

  As she had neuer beene, for he that now

  Can doe her most disgrace, him they alow

  The times chiefe Champion, and he is the man,

  The prize, and Palme that absolutely wanne,

  For where Kings Clossets her free seat hath bin

  She neere the Lodge, not suffered is to Inne,

  For ignorance against her stands in state,

  Like some great porter at a Pallace gate;

  So dull and barbarous lately are we growne,

  And there are some this slauery that haue sowne, 70

  That for mans knowledge it enough doth make,

  If he can learne, to read an Almanacke;

  By whom that trash of Amadis de Gaule,

  Is held an author most authenticall,

  And things we haue like Noblemen that be

  In little time, which I haue hope to see

  Vpon their foot-clothes, as the streets they ride

  To haue their hornebookes at their girdles ti’d.

  But all their superfluity of spite

  On vertues hand-maid Poesy doth light, 80

  And to extirpe her all their plots they lay,

  But to her ruine they shall misse the way,

  For his alone the Monuments of wit,

  Aboue the rage of Tyrants that doe sit,

  And from their strength, not one himselfe can saue,

  But they shall tryumph o’r his hated graue.

  In my conceipt, friend, thou didst neuer see

  A righter Madman then thou hast of me,

  For now as Elegiack I bewaile

  These poor base times; then suddainely I raile 90

  And am Satirick, not that I inforce

  My selfe to be so, but euen as remorse,

 
; Or hate, in the proud fulnesse of their hight

  Master my fancy, iust so doe I write.

  But gentle friend as soone shall I behold

  That stone of which so many haue vs tould,

  (Yet neuer any to this day could make)

  The great Elixar or to vndertake

  The Rose-crosse knowledge which is much like that

  A Tarrying-iron for fooles to labour at, 100

  As euer after I may hope to see,

  (A plague vpon this beastly world for me,)

  Wit so respected as it was of yore;

  And if hereafter any it restore,

  It must be those that yet for many a yeare,

  Shall be vnborne that must inhabit here,

  And such in vertue as shall be asham’d

  Almost to heare their ignorant Grandsires nam’d,

  With whom so many noble spirits then liu’d,

  That were by them of all reward depriu’d. 110

  My noble friend, I would I might haue quit

  This age of these, and that I might haue writ,

  Before all other, how much the braue pen,

  Had here bin honoured of the English men;

  Goodnesse and knowledge, held by them in prise,

  How hatefull to them Ignorance and vice;

  But it falls out the contrary is true,

  And so my Ieffreyes for this time adue.

  VPON THE DEATH OF MISTRIS ELIANOR FALLOWFIELD.

  Accursed Death, what neede was there at all

  Of thee, or who to councell thee did call;

  The subiect whereupon these lines I spend

  For thee was most vnfit, her timelesse end

  Too soone thou wroughtst, too neere her thou didst stand;

  Thou shouldst haue lent thy leane and meager hand

  To those who oft the help thereof beseech,

  And can be cured by no other Leech.

  In this wide world how many thousands be,

  That hauing past fourescore, doe call for thee. 10

  The wretched debtor in the Iayle that lies,

  Yet cannot this his Creditor suffice

  Doth woe thee oft with many a sigh and teare,

  Yet thou art coy, and him thou wilt not heare.

  The Captiue slaue that tuggeth at the Oares,

  And vnderneath the Bulls tough sinewes rores,

  Begs at thy hand, in lieu of all his paines,

  That thou wouldst but release him of his chaines;

  Yet thou a niggard listenest not thereto,

  With one short gaspe which thou mightst easily do, 20

  But thou couldst come to her ere there was neede,

  And euen at once destroy both flower and seede.

  But cruell Death if thou so barbarous be,

  To those so goodly, and so young as shee;

  That in their teeming thou wilt shew thy spight;

  Either from marriage thou wilt Maides affright,

  Or in their wedlock, Widowes liues to chuse

  Their Husbands bed, and vtterly refuse,

  Fearing conception; so shalt thou thereby

  Extirpate mankinde by thy cruelty. 30

  If after direfull Tragedy thou thirst,

  Extinguish Himens Torches at the first;

  Build Funerall pyles, and the sad pauement strewe,

  With mournfull Cypresse, and the pale-leau’d Yewe.

  Away with Roses, Myrtle, and with Bayes;

  Ensignes of mirth, and iollity, as these;

  Neuer at Nuptials vsed be againe,

  But from the Church the new Bride entertaine

  With weeping Nenias, euer and among,

  As at departings be sad Requiems song. 40

  Lucina by th’ olde Poets that wert sayd,

  Women in Childe-birth euermore to ayde,

  Because thine Altars, long haue layne neglected:

  Nor as they should, thy holy fiers reflected

  Vpon thy Temples, therefore thou doest flye,

  And wilt not helpe them in necessitie.

  Thinking vpon thee, I doe often muse,

  Whether for thy deare sake I should accuse

  Nature or Fortune, Fortune then I blame,

  And doe impute it as her greatest shame, 50

  To hast thy timelesse end, and soone agen

  I vexe at Nature, nay I curse her then,

  That at the time of need she was no stronger,

  That we by her might haue enioy’d thee longer.

  But whilst of these I with my selfe debate,

  I call to minde how flinty-hearted Fate

  Seaseth the olde, the young, the faire, the foule,

  No thing on earth can Destinie controule:

  But yet that Fate which hath of life bereft thee,

  Still to eternall memory hath left thee, 60

  Which thou enioy’st by the deserued breath,

  That many a great one hath not after death.

  FINIS.

  THE MOON CALF

  THE MOONE-CALFE.

  Stultorum plena sunt omnia.

  Helpe Neighbours helpe, for Gods sake come with speede,

  For of your helpe there never was such neede:

  Midwives make hast, and dresse yee as yee runne;

  Either come quickly, or w’are all undone;

  The World’s in labour, her throwes come so thick,

  That with the Pangues she’s waxt starke lunatick:

  But whither, whither, one was heard to crie:

  She that call’d thus, doth presently replie;

  Doe yee not see in ev’ry Streete and place,

  The generall world now in a piteous case.

  Up got the Gossips, and for very hast,

  Some came without Shooes, some came all unlac’d,

  As she had first appointed them, and found

  The World in labour, dropt into a swound:

  Wallowing she lay, like to a boystrous hulke,

  Dropsied with Ryots, and her big-swolne bulke

  Stuff’d with infection, rottennesse, and stench;

  Her blood so fierd, that nothing might it quench

  But the Aspes poyson, which stood by her still,

  That in her drought she often us’d to swill;

  Clothed she was in a Fooles coate, and cap,

  Of rich imbroydered Silks, and in her lap

  A sort of paper Puppets, Gawdes, and Toyes,

  Trifles scarce good enough for Girles and Boyes,

  Which she had dandled, and with them had playd,

  And of this trash her onely God had made.

  Out and alasse (quoth one) the rest among,

  I doubt me Neighbours, we have stay’d too long:

  Pluck off your Rings, lay me your Bracelets by;

  Fall to your bus’nesse, and that speedily,

  Or else I doubt, her spirits consume so fast,

  That e’re the birth, her strength will quite be past:

  But when more wistly they did her behold,

  There was not one (that once) durst be so bold

  As to come neere her, but stood all amaz’d,

  Each upon other silently and gaz’d:

  When as her belly they so bigge doe see,

  As if a Tunne within the same should be,

  And heard a noyse and rumbling in her wombe,

  As at the instant of the generall doome:

  Thunder and Earthquakes raging, and the Rocks

  Tumbling downe from their scytes, like mighty blocks,

  Rowl’d from huge mountaines, such a noyse they make,

  As though in sunder heav’ns huge Axtree brake,

  They either Poles their heads together pasht,

  And all againe into the Chaos dasht.

  Some of slight judgement that were standing by,

  Sayd, it was nothing but a Timpany:

  Others said, sure she humane helpe did want,

  And had conceived by an Elephant;

  Or some Sea-monster, of a horrid shape,


  Committed with her by some violent rape:

  Others more wise, and noting very well,

  How her huge wombe did past all compasse swell,

  Said certainly (if that they might confesse her)

  It would be found some Divell did possesse her.

  Thus while they stood, and knew not what to doe;

  Women (quoth one) why doe you trifle so:

  I pray you thinke, but wherefore yee came hether,

  Shall wombe, and burthen, perish both together:

  Bring forth the Birth-stoole, no, let it alone,

  She is so farre beyond all compasse growne:

  Some other new devise us needs must sted,

  Or else she never can be brought to bed.

  Let one that hath some execrable spell,

  Make presently her entrance into hell:

  Call Hecate, and the damn’d Furies hether,

  And try if they will undertake together

  To helpe the sicke World; one is out of hand

  Dispatch’d for hell, who by the dread command

  Of powerfull Charmes brought Hecate away,

  Who knowing her bus’nesse, from her selfe doth lay

  That sad aspect, she wont to put on there,

  In that blacke Empire; and doth now appeare,

  As shees Lucina giving strength and ayde

  In birth to women; mild as any mayde,

  Full of sweet hope her brow seemd, and her eyes

  Darting fresh comfort, like the morning skies.

  Then came the Furies with their bosomes bare,

  Save somewhat covered with their Snaky hayre,

  In wreathes contorted, mumbling hellish Charmes,

  Up to the elbowes naked were there Armes.

  Megera, eld’st of this damn’d Femall Fiends,

  Gnawing her wrists, biting her fingers ends,

  Entred the first; Tysiphone the next,

  As to revenge her Sister throughly vext:

  In one hand bare a whip, and in the other

  A long shape knife; the third, which seeme to smoother,

  Her manner of revenge, cast such an eye,

  As well neare turnd to stone all that stood by,

  Her name Alecto, which no plague doth rue,

  Nor never leaves them, whom she doth pursue.

  The women pray the Goddesse now to stand

  Auspicious to them, and to lend her hand

  To the sick World, which willingly she granted;

  But at the sight as altogether danted,

  From her cleare face the sprightly vigour fled,

  And but she sawe the Women hard bested,

  Out she had gone, nor one glance back had shot,

  Till heaven or hell she o’r her head had got,

  Yet she her selfe retires, next to the dore.