Sonnet 43

Why should your faire eyes with such soueraine grace,
Dispearse their raies on euery vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darknes in the selfesame place,
Get not one glance to recompence my merit:
So doth the plow-man gaze the wandring starre,
And onely rests contented with the light,
That neuer learnd what constellations are,
Beyond the bent of his vnknowing sight.
O why should beautie (custome to obey)
To their grosse sence applie her selfe so ill?
Would God I were as ignorant as they
When I am made vnhappy by my skill;
    Onely compeld on this poore good to boast,
    Heauens are not kind to them that know them most.

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

Sonnets: Idea XXI

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 22

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 15

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonet 45

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 XLIII

Why should your fair eyes with such sov'reign grace
Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit,
Whilst I in darkness in the self-same place,
Get not one glance to recompense my merit?
    So doth the plowman gaze the wand'ring star,
And only rest contented with the light,
That never learned what constellations are,
Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight.
    O why should beauty, custom to obey,
To their gross sense apply herself so ill!
Would God I were as ignorant as they,
When I am made unhappy by my skill,
    Only compelled on this poor good to boast!
    Heavens are not kind to them that know them most.

Michael Drayton

Sonnet 66 To the Lady L.S.

Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit,
A thousand Nimph-like and enamoured Graces,
The Goddesses of memory and wit,
Which in due order take their seuerall places,
In whose deare bosome, sweet delicious loue,
Layes downe his quiuer, that he once did beare,
Since he that blessed Paradice did proue,
Forsooke his mothers lap to sport him there.
Let others striue to entertaine with words,
My soule is of another temper made;
I hold it vile that vulgar wit affords,
Deuouring time my faith, shall not inuade:
    Still let my praise be honoured thus by you,
    Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.

Michael Drayton

Sonnet 57

You best discern'd of my interior eies,
And yet your graces outwardly diuine,
Whose deare remembrance in my bosome lies,
Too riche a relique for so poore a shrine:
You in whome Nature chose herselfe to view,
When she her owne perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her excellence on you;
At whose pure eies Loue lights his halowed fire,
Euen as a man that in some traunce hath scene,
More than his wondring vttrance can vnfolde,
That rapt in spirite in better worlds hath beene,
So must your praise distractedly be tolde;
    Most of all short, when I should shew you most,
    In your perfections altogether lost.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea IV

Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,
Which there in order take their several places;
    In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear,
Since he that blessèd paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there
    Let others strive to entertain with words
My soul is of a braver mettle made;
I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords;
In me's that faith which time cannot invade.
    Let what I praise be still made good by you;
    Be you most worthy whilst I am most true!

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea LVII

You best discerned of my mind's inward eyes,
And yet your graces outwardly divine,
Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,
Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine;
    You, in whom nature chose herself to view,
When she her own perfection would admire;
Bestowing all her excellence on you,
At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire;
    Even as a man that in some trance hath seen
More than his wond'ring utterance can unfold,
That rapt in spirit in better worlds hath been,
So must your praise distractedly be told;
    Most of all short when I would show you most,
    In your perfections so much am I lost.

Michael Drayton

Sonnet 47

In pride of wit, when high desire of fame
Gaue life and courage to my labouring pen,
And first the sound and vertue of my name,
Won grace and credit in the eares of men:
With those the thronged Theaters that presse,
I in the circuite for the Lawrell stroue,
Where the full praise I freely must confesse,
In heate of blood a modest minde might moue:
With showts and daps at euerie little pawse,
When the prowd round on euerie side hath rung,
Sadly I sit vnmou'd with the applawse,
As though to me it nothing did belong:
    No publique glorie vainely I pursue,
    The praise I striue, is to eternize you.

Michael Drayton