From Eclogue ij

Tell me fayre flocke, (if so you can conceaue)
The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,
If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,
By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips
Or vgly Saturne from his combust sent,
This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.

Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light,
Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,
Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring night,
Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice,
Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.

May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?
May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?
Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?
Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,
When loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.

Yet needes the earth must droope with visage sad,
When siluer dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes,
The Cheerful Welkin, once in sables clad,
Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.
And yet for all to make amends for this,
The clouds sheed teares, and weepen at my misse.

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

Sonnet 48

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea III

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnet 58

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 19

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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From Eclogue ij

Vppon a bank with roses set about,
Where pretty turtles ioyning bil to bill,
And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out
Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill:
There little loue sore wounded lyes,
His bowe and arowes broken,
Bedewd with teares from Venus eyes
Oh greeuous to be spoken.

Beare him my hart slaine with her scornefull eye
Where sticks the arrowe that poore hart did kill,
With whose sharp pile request him ere he die,
About the same to write his latest will,
And bid him send it backe to mee,
At instant of his dying,
That cruell cruell shee may see
My faith and her denying.

His chappell be a mournefull Cypresse Shade,
And for a chauntry Philomels sweet lay,
Where prayers shall continually be made
By pilgrim louers pas...

Michael Drayton

From Eclogue ij

Then this great Vniuerse no lesse,
Can serue her prayses to expresse:
Betwixt her eies the poles of Loue,
The host of heauenly beautyes moue,
Depainted in their proper stories,
As well the fixd as wandring glories,
Which from their proper orbes not goe,
Whether they gyre swift or slowe:
Where from their lips, when she doth speake,
The musick of those sphears do breake,
Which their harmonious motion breedeth:
From whose cheerfull breath proceedeth:
That balmy sweetnes that giues birth
To euery ofspring of the earth.
Her shape and cariage of which frame
In forme how well shee beares the same,
Is that proportion heauens best treasure,
Whereby it doth all poyze and measure,
So that alone her happy sight
Conteynes perfection and delight.

Michael Drayton

From Eclogue iv

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,
And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base,
And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,
        with weeping verse,
        attend his hearse,
Whose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,
Warble forth your wamenting harmony,
And at his drery fatall obsequie,
        with Cypres bowes,
        maske your fayre Browes,
And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen,
And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,
Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,
        vnto our endless mone,
        from vs why art thou gone,
To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.

O whylome thou thy lasses dearest...

Michael Drayton

Amour 25

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed,
When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet,
Her golden beames had now discouered,
Lightning the world, eclipsed by his set.
Some muz'd to see the earth enuy the ayre,
Which from her lyps exhald refined sweet,
A world to see, yet how he ioyd to heare
The dainty grasse make musicke with her feete.
But my most meruaile was when from the skyes,
So Comet-like, each starre aduanc'd her lyght,
As though the heauen had now awak'd her eyes,
And summond Angels to this blessed sight.
    No clowde was seene, but christalline the ayre,
    Laughing for ioy upon my louely fayre.

Michael Drayton

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

An Elegie Vpon The Death Of The Lady Penelope Clifton

    Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse,
He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,
Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire.
    Since I knew ought time neuer did allowe
Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
When France and England's HENRIES dy'd, my quill,
Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
To obserue custome I vse not to praise;
Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
On any one from whom she was descended;
That for their fauour I this way should wooe,
As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
If by my freedome, I may giue her fame.
    Walking then forth being newly vp from b...

Michael Drayton