Sonnets: Idea XXXIV To Admiration

Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire,
    Ravished a world beyond the farthest thought,
    And knowing more than ever hath been taught,
That I am only starved in my desire.
Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire,
    Aiming at things exceeding all perfection,
    To wisdom's self to minister direction,
That I am only starved in my desire.
Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire,
    Though my conceit I further seem to bend
    Than possibly invention can extend,
And yet am only starved in my desire.
    If thou wilt wonder, here's the wonder, love,
    That this to me doth yet no wonder prove.

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

Amour 48

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea XXXIII To Imagination

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonnets: Idea VI

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Sonet 30 To The Vestalls

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonet 34 To Admiration

Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,
Rauish'd a world beyond the farthest thought,
That knowing more then euer hath beene taught,
That I am onely staru'd in my desire;
Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,
Ayming at things exceeding all perfection,
To wisedoms selfe, to minister direction,
That I am onely staru'd in my desire;
Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,
Though my conceite I farther seeme to bend,
Then possibly inuention can extend,
And yet am onely staru'd in my desire;
    If thou wilt wonder, heers the wonder loue,
    That this to mee doth yet no wonder proue.

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 XLII

Some men there be which like my method well,
    And much commend the strangeness of my vein;
    Some say I have a passing pleasing strain,
Some say that in my humour I excel.
Some who not kindly relish my conceit,
    They say, as poets do, I use to feign,
    And in bare words paint out by passions' pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry minds repeat.
I pass not, I, how men affected be,
    Nor who commends or discommends my verse!
    It pleaseth me if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines if she my love may see.
    Only my comfort still consists in this,
    Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.

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

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 XXXIII To Imagination

Whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight,
My woful heart imprisoned in my breast,
Wisheth to be transformèd to my sight,
That it like those by looking might be blest.
    But whilst mine eyes thus greedily do gaze,
Finding their objects over-soon depart,
These now the other's happiness do praise,
Wishing themselves that they had been my heart,
    That eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes,
As covetous the other's use to have.
But finding nature their request denies,
This to each other mutually they crave;
    That since the one cannot the other be,
    That eyes could think of that my heart could see.

Michael Drayton