Sonnets: Idea XIV

If he, from heaven that filched that living fire,
    Condemned by Jove to endless torment be,
    I greatly marvel how you still go free
That far beyond Prometheus did aspire.
The fire he stole, although of heavenly kind,
    Which from above he craftily did take,
    Of lifeless clods us living men to make
He did bestow in temper of the mind.
But you broke into heaven's immortal store,
    Where virtue, honour, wit, and beauty lay;
    Which taking thence, you have escaped away,
Yet stand as free as e'er you did before.
    Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape;
    Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater 'scape.

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 XLI Love's Lunacy

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea XLIII

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea LVIII

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 42

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet 17

If hee from heauen that filch'd that liuing fire,
Condemn'd by Ioue to endlesse torment be,
I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,
That farre beyond Promethius did aspire?
The fire he stole, although of heauenly kinde,
Which from aboue he craftily did take,
Of liueles clods vs liuing men to make,
Againe bestow'd in temper of the mind.
But you broke in to heauens immortall store,
Where vertue, honour, wit, and beautie lay,
Which taking thence, you haue escap'd away,
Yet stand as free as ere you did before.
    But old Promethius punish'd for his rape,
    Thus poore theeues suffer, when the greater scape.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea XXIII

Love, banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary;
And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,
Yet craved the alms of such as passèd by.
    I, like a man devout and charitable,
Clothèd the naked, lodged this wandering guest;
With sighs and tears still furnishing his table
With what might make the miserable blest.
    But this ungrateful for my good desert,
Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.
    Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,
    No marvel then though charity grow cold.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea LXII

When first I ended, then I first began;
Then more I travelled further from my rest.
Where most I lost, there most of all I won;
Pinèd with hunger, rising from a feast.
    Methinks I fly, yet want I legs to go,
Wise in conceit, in act a very sot,
Ravished with joy amidst a hell of woe,
What most I seem that surest am I not.
    I build my hopes a world above the sky,
Yet with the mole I creep into the earth;
In plenty I am starved with penury,
And yet I surfeit in the greatest dearth.
    I have, I want, despair, and yet desire,
    Burned in a sea of ice, and drowned amidst a fire.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea LVIII

In former times, such as had store of coin,
In wars at home or when for conquests bound,
For fear that some their treasure should purloin,
Gave it to keep to spirits within the ground;
    And to attend it them as strongly tied
Till they returned. Home when they never came,
Such as by art to get the same have tried,
From the strong spirit by no means force the same.
    Nearer men come, that further flies away,
Striving to hold it strongly in the deep.
Ev'n as this spirit, so you alone do play
With those rich beauties Heav'n gives you to keep;
    Pity so left to th' coldness of your blood,
    Not to avail you nor do others good.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea XXI

A witless gallant a young wench that wooed--
Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move--
Intreated me as e'er I wished his good,
To write him but one sonnet to his love.
    When I as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Poured out what first from quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot;
Much like his wit that was to use the same.
    But with my verses he his mistress won,
Who doated on the dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to heaven for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure!
    Yet by my troth, this fool his love obtains,
    And I lose you for all my wit and pains!

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea XLIX

Thou leaden brain, which censur'st what I write,
And sayst my lines be dull and do not move,
I marvel not thou feel'st not my delight,
Which never felt'st my fiery touch of love;
    But thou whose pen hath like a packhorse served,
Whose stomach unto gall hath turned thy food,
Whose senses like poor prisoners, hunger-starved
Whose grief hath parched thy body, dried thy blood;
    Thou which hast scornèd life and hated death,
And in a moment, mad, sober, glad, and sorry;
Thou which hast banned thy thoughts and curst thy birth
With thousand plagues more than in purgatory;
    Thou thus whose spirit love in his fire refines,
    Come thou and read, admire, applaud my lines!

Michael Drayton