Sonnets: Idea XII To The Soul

    That learned Father which so firmly proves
    The soul of man immortal and divine,
    And doth the several offices define
    Anima.    Gives her that name, as she the body moves.
    Amor.    Then is she love, embracing charity.
    Animus.    Moving a will in us, it is the mind;
    Mens.    Retaining knowledge, still the same in kind.
    Memoria.    As intellectual, it is memory.
    Ratio.    In judging, reason only is her name.
    Sensus.    In speedy apprehension, it is sense.
    Conscientia.    In right and wrong they call her conscience;
    Spiritus.    The spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame:
    These of the soul the several functions be,
    Which my heart lightened by thy love doth see.

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 66 To the Lady L.S.

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnet 50

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 15

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 45

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonet 14 To The Soule

That learned Father which so firmly proues
The soule of man immortall and diuine,
And doth the seuerall offices define,
Anima. Giues her that name as shee the body moues,
Amor. Then is she loue imbracing Charitie,
Animus. Mouing a will in vs, it is the mind,
Mens. Retayning knowledge, still the same in kind;
Memoria. As intelectuall it is the memorie,
Ratio. In judging, Reason onely is her name,
Sensus. In speedy apprehension it is sence,
Conscientia. In right or wrong, they call her conscience.
Spiritus. The spirit, when it to Godward doth inflame.
    These of the soule the seuerall functions bee,
    Which my hart lightned by thy loue doth see.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea LIV

Yet read at last the story of my woe,
The dreary abstracts of my endless cares,
With my life's sorrow interlinèd so,
Smoked with my sighs, and blotted with my tears,
    The sad memorials of my miseries,
Penned in the grief of mine afflicted ghost,
My life's complaint in doleful elegies,
With so pure love as time could never boast.
    Receive the incense which I offer here,
By my strong faith ascending to thy fame,
My zeal, my hope, my vows, my praise, my prayer,
My soul's oblations to thy sacred name;
    Which name my Muse to highest heavens shall raise,
By chaste desire, true love, and virtuous praise.

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 LV

My fair, if thou wilt register my love,
A world of volumes shall thereof arise;
Preserve my tears, and thou thyself shall prove
A second flood down raining from mine eyes;
    Note but my sighs, and thine eyes shall behold
The sunbeams smothered with immortal smoke;
And if by thee my prayers may be enrolled,
They heaven and earth to pity shall provoke.
    Look thou into my breast, and thou shalt see
Chaste holy vows for my soul's sacrifice,
That soul, sweet maid, which so hath honoured thee,
Erecting trophies to thy sacred eyes,
    Those eyes to my heart shining ever bright,
    When darkness hath obscured each other light.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea XLI Love's Lunacy

Why do I speak of joy or write of love,
When my heart is the very den of horror,
And in my soul the pains of hell I prove,
With all his torments and infernal terror?
    What should I say? what yet remains to do?
My brain is dry with weeping all too long;
My sighs be spent in utt'ring of my woe,
And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong.
    But still distracted in love's lunacy,
And bedlam-like thus raving in my grief,
Now rail upon her hair, then on her eye,
Now call her goddess, then I call her thief;
    Now I deny her, then I do confess her,
    Now do I curse her, then again I bless her.

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