From Eclogue ix

Motto.    Tell me thou skilfull shepheards swayne,
            Who's yonder in the vally set?
Perkin. O it is she whose sweets do stayne,
            The Lilly, Rose, or violet.

Motto.    Why doth the Sunne against his kind,
            Stay his bright Chariot in the skies,
Perkin. He pawseth almost stroken blind,
            With gazing on her heauenly eies:

Motto.    Why doe thy flocks forbeare their foode,
            Which somtyme was their chiefe delight,
Perkin. Because they neede no other good,
            That liue in presence of her sight:

Motto.    How com those flowers to florish still,
            Not withering with sharpe winters breath?
Perkin. She hath robd nature of her skill,
            And comforts all things with her breath:

Motto.    Why slide these brookes so slow away,
            As swift as the wild Roe that were,
Perkin. O muse not shepheard that they stay,
            When they her heauenly voice do heare.

Motto.    From whence com all these goodly swayns
            And lonely nimphs attir'd in greene,
Perkin. From gathering garlands on the playnes,
            To crowne thy Siluia shepheards queen.

Motto.    The sun that lights this world below,
            Flocks, Brooks and flowers, can witnesse bear,
Perkin. These shepheards, and these nymphs do know,
            Thy Syluia is as chast, as fayre.

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

Vpon The Death Of Mistris Elianor Fallowfield

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 18

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 6

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 9

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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From Eclogue ix

Rowland. Of her pure eyes (that now is seen)
Chorus.    Help vs to sing that be her faithful swains
Row:        O she alone the shepheards Queen,
Cho:        Her Flocke that leades,
            The goddesse of these medes,
            These mountaines and these plaines.

Row:        Those eyes of hers that are more cleere,
Cho:        Then silly shepheards can in song expresse,
Row:        Then be his beams that rule the yeare,
Cho:        Fy on that prayse,
            In striuing things to rayse:
            That doth but make them lesse.

Row:        That doe the flowery spring prolong,
Cho:        So much the earth doth in her presence ioy,
Row:        And keeps the plenteous summer young:
Cho:        And doth asswage
            The wrathfull wi...

Michael Drayton

The Qvest Of Cynthia

What time the groues were clad in greene,
    The Fields drest all in flowers,
And that the sleeke-hayred Nimphs were seene,
    To seeke them Summer Bowers.

Forth rou'd I by the sliding Rills,
    To finde where CYNTHIA sat,
Whose name so often from the hills,
    The Ecchos wondred at.

When me vpon my Quest to bring,
    That pleasure might excell,
The Birds stroue which should sweetliest sing,
    The Flowers which sweet'st should smell.

Long wand'ring in the Woods (said I)
    Oh whether's CYNTHIA gone?
When soone the Eccho doth reply,
    To my last word, goe on.

At length vpon a lofty Firre,
    It was my chance to finde,
Where that deare name most due to her,
    Was caru'd vpon the rynde.

Which whilst w...

Michael Drayton

Spring - The First Pastoral ; Or Damon

First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
Let vernal airs tho' trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.
You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r,
Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost!
O let my Muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
So when the Nightingale to rest removes,
The Thrush may chant to the forsaken groves,
But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings,
And all th' aerial audience clap their wings.
Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
Tw...

Alexander Pope

Ode 8

Singe wee the Rose
Then which no flower there growes
    Is sweeter:
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare
    A parallel none meeter.

Or made poses,
Of this that incloses
    Suche blisses,
That naturally flusheth
As she blusheth
    When she is robd of kisses.

Or if strew'd
When with the morning dew'd
    Or stilling,
Or howe to sense expos'd
All which in her inclos'd,
    Ech place with sweetnes filling.

That most renown'd
By Nature richly crownd
    With yellow,
Of that delitious layre
And as pure, her hayre
    Vnto the same the fellowe,

Fearing of harme
Nature that flower doth arme
    From danger,
The touch giues her offence
But with reuerence
    Vnto her...

Michael Drayton

Odes From Horace. - To Mæcenas. Book The First, Ode The First.

I.

Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung,
    For whom my golden lyre I strung,
Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song,
    O mark the Youth, that towers along,
    With triumph in his air;
    Proud of Olympic dust, that soils
    His burning cheek and tangled hair!
Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils!
    Each look the throbbing hope reveals
    That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels,
Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal,
Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol.


II.

    Who the civic crown obtains,
    Or bears into his granaries large
The plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains;
Or he, who watches still a rural charge,
    O'er his own fields directs the plough,
    Sees his own fr...

Anna Seward

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