An Ode Written In The Peake

This while we are abroad,
    Shall we not touch our Lyre?
Shall we not sing an ODE?
    Shall that holy Fire,
In vs that strongly glow'd,
    In this cold Ayre expire?

Long since the Summer layd
    Her lustie Brau'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
    And BOREAS 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
    Great BRVTES first builded Towne.

Though in the vtmost Peake,
    A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
    Expos'd to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
    To exercise our Vaine.

What though bright PHOEBVS Beames
    Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
    With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
    Be many Wonders found;

Yet many Riuers cleare
    Here glide in Siluer Swathes,
And what of all most deare,
    Buckston's delicious Bathes,
Strong Ale and Noble Cheare,
    T' asswage breeme Winters scathes.

Those grim and horrid Caues,
    Whose Lookes affright the day,
Wherein nice Nature saues,
    What she would not bewray,
Our better leasure craues,
    And doth inuite our Lay.

In places farre or neere,
    Or famous, or obscure,
Where wholesome is the Ayre,
    Or where the most impure,
All times, and euery-where,
    The Muse is still in vre.

Michael Drayton

Michael Drayton was an English poet who produced a variety of work, including historical poems, sonnets, and a vast poem on the geography of England. His most significant contribution to poetry is the long historical epic "Poly-Olbion" which describes the topography and history of England and Wales. Drayton's poetry often reflects his staunch patriotism and deep scholarly interest in English history.

Michael Drayton

An Elegie Vpon The Death Of The Lady Penelope Clifton

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea XIX To Humour

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Songs From The 'Shepherd's Garland'

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Of His Ladies Not Comming To London

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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To Himselfe And The Harpe

And why not I, as hee
That's greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that striue,
Since there so many be)
Th' old Lyrick kind reuiue?

I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way?
For what is he alone,
That of himselfe can say,
Hee's Heire of Helicon?

APOLLO, and the Nine,
Forbid no Man their Shrine,
That commeth with hands pure;
Else be they so diuine,
They will not him indure.

For they be such coy Things,
That they care not for Kings,
And dare let them know it;
Nor may he touch their Springs,
That is not borne a Poet.

^[1]The Phocean it did proue,
Whom when foule Lust did moue,
Those Mayds vnchast to make,
Fell, as with them he stroue,
His Neck and iustly brake.

That ins...

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To The New Yeere

Rich Statue, double-faced,
With Marble Temples graced,
    To rayse thy God-head hyer,
In flames where Altars shining,
Before thy Priests diuining,
    Doe od'rous Fumes expire.

Great IANVS, I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian treasure,
    Doe seriously pursue;
To th' passed yeere returning,
As though the old adiourning,
    Yet bringing in the new.

Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,
I haue obserued cleerely,
    Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Giue something to my Goddesse,
    As hath been vs'd by thee.

Giue her th' Eoan brightnesse,
Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,
    That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;
The Roses of the Morning
The rising Heau'n adorning,
    To mesh with flames ...

Michael Drayton

A Hymne To His Ladies Birth-Place

Couentry, that do'st adorne^[1]
The Countrey wherein I was borne,
Yet therein lyes not thy prayse
Why I should crowne thy Tow'rs with Bayes:
'Tis not thy Wall, me to thee weds
Thy Ports, nor thy proud Pyrameds,
Nor thy Trophies of the Bore,^[2]
But that Shee which I adore,
Which scarce Goodnesse selfe can payre,
First their breathing blest thy Ayre;
IDEA, in which Name I hide
Her, in my heart Deifi'd,
For what good, Man's mind can see,
Onely her IDEAS be;
She, in whom the Vertues came
In Womans shape, and tooke her Name,
She so farre past Imitation,
As but Nature our Creation
Could not alter, she had aymed,
More then Woman to haue framed:
She, whose truely written Story,
To thy poore Name shall adde more glory,

Michael Drayton

Of His Ladies Not Comming To London

That ten-yeares-trauell'd Greeke return'd from Sea
Ne'r ioyd so much to see his Ithaca,
As I should you, who are alone to me,
More then wide Greece could to that wanderer be.
The winter windes still Easterly doe keepe,
And with keene Frosts haue chained vp the deepe,
The Sunne's to vs a niggard of his Rayes,
But reuelleth with our Antipodes;
And seldome to vs when he shewes his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed.
In those bleake mountaines can you liue where snowe
Maketh the vales vp to the hilles to growe;
Whereas mens breathes doe instantly congeale,
And attom'd mists turne instantly to hayle;
Belike you thinke, from this more temperate cost,
My sighes may haue the power to thawe the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,

Michael Drayton

To My Most Dearely-Loued Friend Henery Reynolds Esquire, Of Poets & Poesie

    My dearely loued friend how oft haue we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well-chosen place vs'd to retire;
And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
Haue past the howres contentedly with chat,
Now talk of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if not
Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who liued long agoe to heare,
As well as of those, of these latter times,
Who have inricht our language with their rimes,
And in succession, how still vp they grew,
Which is the subiect, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle, (you must know that) I,
Was still inclin'd to nob...

Michael Drayton

Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland

Madame,

VVhil'st that, for which all vertue now is sold,
And almost every vice, almightie gold,
That which, to boote with hell, is thought worth heaven,
And for it, life, conscience, yea soules are given,
Toyles, by grave custome, up and downe the Court,
To every squire, or groome, that will report
Well, or ill, only, all the following yeere,
Just to the waight their this dayes-presents beare;
While it makes huishers serviceable men,
And some one apteth to be trusted, then,
Though never after; whiles it gaynes the voyce
Of some grand peere, whose ayre-doth make rejoyce
The foole that gave it; who will want, and weepe,
When his proud patrons favours are asleepe;
While thus it buyes great grace, and hunts poore fame;
Runs betweene man, and man, 'tweene, da...

Ben Jonson