Sonet 25

O why should nature nigardly restraine,
The Sotherne Nations relish not our tongue,
Else should my lines glide on the waues of Rhene,
And crowne the Pirens with my liuing song;
But bounded thus to Scotland get you forth:
Thence take you wing vnto the Orcades,
There let my verse get glory in the North,
Making my sighs to thawe the frozen seas,
And let the Bards within the Irish Ile,
To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall passe,
Call backe the stifneckd rebels from exile,
And molifie the slaughtering Galliglasse:
    And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
    Let Wolues and Bears be charmed with my verse.

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

To Himselfe And The Harpe

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonet 14 To The Soule

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 31

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

To The Deere Chyld Of The Muses, And His Euer Kind MecæNas, Ma. Anthony Cooke, Esquire

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sonnets: Idea XXV

O, why should nature niggardly restrain
That foreign nations relish not our tongue?
Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhine,
And crown the Pyren's with my living song.
    But bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth!
Thence take you wing unto the Orcades!
There let my verse get glory in the north,
Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas.
    And let the bards within that Irish isle,
To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall pass,
Call back the stiff-necked rebels from exile,
And mollify the slaughtering gallowglass;
    And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,
    Let wolves and bears be charmèd with my verse.

Michael Drayton

Sonet 43

Whilst thus my pen striues to eternize thee,
Age rules my lines with wrincles in my face,
Where in the Map of all my misery,
Is modeld out the world of my disgrace,
Whilst in despight of tyrannizing times,
Medea like I make thee young againe,
Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rimes,
And murther'st vertue with thy coy disdaine;
And though in youth, my youth vntimely perrish,
To keepe thee from obliuion and the graue,
Ensuing ages yet my rimes shall cherrish,
Where I entomb'd, my better part shall saue;
    And though this earthly body fade and die
    My name shall mount vpon eternitie.

Michael Drayton

Sonet 3

Many there be excelling in this kind,
Whose well trick'd rimes with all inuention swell,
Let each commend as best shall like his minde,
Some Sidney, Constable, some Daniell.
That thus theyr names familiarly I sing,
Let none think them disparaged to be,
Poore men with reuerence may speake of a King,
And so may these be spoken of by mee;
My wanton verse nere keepes one certaine stay,
But now, at hand; then, seekes inuention far,
And with each little motion runnes astray,
Wilde, madding, iocond, and irreguler;
    Like me that lust, my honest merry rimes,
    Nor care for Criticke, nor regard the times.

Michael Drayton

Sonet 44

Muses which sadly sit about my chayre,
Drownd in the teares extorted by my lines,
With heauy sighs whilst thus I breake the ayre,
Paynting my passions in these sad dissignes,
Since she disdaines to blesse my happy verse,
The strong built Trophies to her liuing fame,
Euer hence-forth my bosome be your hearse,
Wherein the world shal now entombe her name,
Enclose my musick you poor sencelesse walls,
Sith she is deafe and will not heare my mones,
Soften your selues with euery teare that falls,
Whilst I like Orpheus sing to trees and stones:
    Which with my plaints seeme yet with pitty moued,
    Kinder then she who I so long haue loued.

Michael Drayton

Sonet 45

Thou leaden braine, which censur'st what I write,
And say'st my lines be dull and doe not moue,
I meruaile not thou feelst not my delight,
Which neuer felt my fiery tuch of loue.
But thou whose pen hath like a Pack-horse seru'd,
Whose stomack vnto gaule hath turn'd thy foode,
Whose sences like poore prisoners hunger-staru'd,
Whose griefe hath parch'd thy body, dry'd thy blood.
Thou which hast scorned life, and hated death,
And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry,
Thou which hast band thy thoughts and curst thy breath,
With thousand plagues more then in purgatory.
    Thou thus whose spirit Loue in his fire refines,
    Come thou and reade, admire, applaud my lines.

Michael Drayton

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;

Michael Drayton