Sonnets: Idea XXXV To Miracle

Some misbelieving and profane in love,
    When I do speak of miracles by thee,
    May say that thou art flatterèd by me,
Who only write my skill in verse to prove
See miracles, ye unbelieving, see!
    A dumb-born Muse made to express the mind,
    A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other touching thee.
Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine;
    And mine ears deaf by thy fame healèd be;
    My vices cured by virtues sprung from thee;
My hopes revived which long in grave had lien.
    All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me,
    Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.

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 10

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

Amour 44

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

To My Worthy Frend, Master John Sauage Of The Inner Temple

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

His Defence Against The Idle Critick

Michael Drayton, Simple Poetry

English

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Amour 12

Some Atheist or vile Infidell in loue,
When I doe speake of thy diuinitie,
May blaspheme thus, and say I flatter thee,
And onely write my skill in verse to proue.
See myracles, ye vnbeleeuing! see
A dumbe-born Muse made to expresse the mind,
A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other touching thee.
Blind were mine eyes, till they were seene of thine,
And mine eares deafe by thy fame healed be;
My vices cur'd by vertues sprung from thee,
My hopes reuiu'd, which long in graue had lyne:
    All vncleane thoughts, foule spirits, cast out in mee
    By thy great power, and by strong fayth in thee.

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 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

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 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

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