Sonnets: Idea XLVIII

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'd have thee know;
A naked starveling ever mayst thou be!
Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow
For some poor rags wherewith to cover thee;
    Or if thou'lt not thy archery forbear,
To some base rustic do thyself prefer,
And when corn's sown or grown into the ear,
Practice thy quiver and turn crowkeeper;
    Or being blind, as fittest for the trade,
Go hire thyself some bungling harper's boy;
They that are blind are minstrels often made,
So mayst thou live to thy fair mother's joy;
    That whilst with Mars she holdeth her old way,
    Thou, her blind son, mayst sit by them and play.

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 XIV

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea LIX To Proverbs

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

From Eclogue ix

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Ode 8

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet 48

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'de haue thee know,
A naked Starueling euer may'st thou be,
Poore Rogue, goe pawne thy Fascia and thy Bow,
For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee;
Or if thou'lt not, thy Archerie forbeare,
To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre,
And when Corne's sowne, or growne into the Eare,
Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper;
Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade)
Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy;
They that are blind, are Minstrels often made,
So may'st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy:
    That whilst with MARS she holdeth her old way,
    Thou, her Blind Sonne, may'st sit by them, and play.

Michael Drayton

Sonnets: Idea XXXVI Cupid Conjured

Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack
To wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me
And suffered her to glory in my wrack,
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee!
    By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears,
By thy fair mother's unavoided power,
By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears,
When she was wrapt to the infernal bower!
    By thine own lovèd Psyche, by the fires
Spent on thine altars flaming up to heaven,
By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires,
By all the wounds that ever thou hast given;
    I conjure thee by all that I have named,
    To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damned!

Michael Drayton

Sonnet 36 Cupid coniured

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slacke
To wound her Heart, whose Eyes haue wounded me,
And suff'red her to glory in my Wracke,
Thus to my aid, I lastly coniure thee;
By Hellish Styx (by which the THUND'RER sweares)
By thy faire Mothers vnauoided Power,
By HECAT'S Names, by PROSERPINE'S sad Teares,
When she was rapt to the infernall Bower,
By thine own loued PSYCHES, by the Fires
Spent on thine Altars, flaming vp to Heau'n;
By all the Louers Sighes, Vowes, and Desires,
By all the Wounds that euer thou hast giu'n;
    I coniure thee by all that I haue nam'd,
    To make her loue, or CUPID be thou damn'd.

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 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

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