Michael Drayton

    Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse,
He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,
Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire.
    Since I knew ought time neuer did allowe
Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
When France and England's HENRIES dy'd, my quill,
Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
To obserue custome I vse not to praise;
Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
On any one from whom she was descended;
That for their fauour I this way should wooe,
As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
If by my freedome, I may giue her fame.
    Walking then forth being newly vp from b...

This while we are abroad,
    Shall we not touch our Lyre?
Shall we not sing an ODE?
    Shall that holy Fire,
In vs that strongly glow'd,
    In this cold Ayre expire?

Long since the Summer layd
    Her lustie Brau'rie downe,
The Autumne halfe is way'd,
    And BOREAS 'gins to frowne,
Since now I did behold
    Great BRVTES first builded Towne.

Though in the vtmost Peake,
    A while we doe remaine,
Amongst the Mountaines bleake
    Expos'd to Sleet and Raine,
No Sport our Houres shall breake,
    To exercise our Vaine.

What though bright PHOEBVS Beames
    Refresh the Southerne Ground,
And though the Princely Thames
    With beautious Nymphs abound,
And by old Camber's Streames
    Be many Wonders found;

The Muse should be sprightly,
Yet not handling lightly
Things graue; as much loath,
Things that be slight, to cloath
Curiously: To retayne
The Comelinesse in meane,
Is true Knowledge and Wit.
Not me forc'd Rage doth fit,
That I thereto should lacke
Tabacco, or need Sacke,
Which to the colder Braine
Is the true Hyppocrene;
Nor did I euer care
For great Fooles, nor them spare.
Vertue, though neglected,
Is not so deiected,
As vilely to descend
To low Basenesse their end;
Neyther each ryming Slaue
Deserues the Name to haue
Of Poet: so the Rabble
Of Fooles, for the Table,
That haue their Iests by Heart,
As an Actor his Part,
Might assume them Chayres
Amongst the Muses Heyres.
Parnassus is not clome
By euery suc...

Douer, to doe thee Right, who will not striue,
That dost in these dull yron Times reuiue
The golden Ages glories; which poore Wee
Had not so much as dream't on but for Thee?
As those braue Grecians in their happy dayes,
On Mount Olympus to their Hercules
Ordain'd their games Olimpick, and so nam'd
Of that great Mountaine; for those pastimes fam'd:
Where then their able Youth, Leapt, Wrestled, Ran,
Threw the arm'd Dart; and honour'd was the Man
That was the Victor; In the Circute there
The nimble Rider, and skill'd Chariotere
Stroue for the Garland; In those noble Times
There to their Harpes the Poets sang their Rimes;
That whilst Greece flourisht, and was onely then
Nurse of all Arts, and of all famous men:
Numbring their yeers, still their accounts they made,...

O thou fayre siluer Thames: O cleerest chrystall flood,
Beta alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood,
        The Queene of Virgins onely she:
        And thou the Queene of floods shalt be:
Let all thy Nymphes be ioyfull then to see this happy day,
Thy Beta now alone shalbe the subiect of my laye.

With daintie and delightsome straines of sweetest virelayes:
Come louely shepheards sit we down and chant our Betas prayse:
        And let vs sing so rare a verse,
        Our Betas prayses to rehearse,
That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing,
And riuers backward bend their course, and flow vnto the spring.

Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke,
And place them duely one by one, vpon thy stately banck,
        Then ...

Vppon a bank with roses set about,
Where pretty turtles ioyning bil to bill,
And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out
Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill:
There little loue sore wounded lyes,
His bowe and arowes broken,
Bedewd with teares from Venus eyes
Oh greeuous to be spoken.

Beare him my hart slaine with her scornefull eye
Where sticks the arrowe that poore hart did kill,
With whose sharp pile request him ere he die,
About the same to write his latest will,
And bid him send it backe to mee,
At instant of his dying,
That cruell cruell shee may see
My faith and her denying.

His chappell be a mournefull Cypresse Shade,
And for a chauntry Philomels sweet lay,
Where prayers shall continually be made
By pilgrim louers pas...

Tell me fayre flocke, (if so you can conceaue)
The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,
If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,
By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips
Or vgly Saturne from his combust sent,
This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.

Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light,
Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,
Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring night,
Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice,
Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.

May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?
May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?
Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?
Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,
...

Then this great Vniuerse no lesse,
Can serue her prayses to expresse:
Betwixt her eies the poles of Loue,
The host of heauenly beautyes moue,
Depainted in their proper stories,
As well the fixd as wandring glories,
Which from their proper orbes not goe,
Whether they gyre swift or slowe:
Where from their lips, when she doth speake,
The musick of those sphears do breake,
Which their harmonious motion breedeth:
From whose cheerfull breath proceedeth:
That balmy sweetnes that giues birth
To euery ofspring of the earth.
Her shape and cariage of which frame
In forme how well shee beares the same,
Is that proportion heauens best treasure,
Whereby it doth all poyze and measure,
So that alone her happy sight
Conteynes perfection and delight.

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,
And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base,
And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,
        with weeping verse,
        attend his hearse,
Whose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,
Warble forth your wamenting harmony,
And at his drery fatall obsequie,
        with Cypres bowes,
        maske your fayre Browes,
And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen,
And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,
Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,
        vnto our endless mone,
        from vs why art thou gone,
To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.

O whylome thou thy lasses dearest...

Rowland. Of her pure eyes (that now is seen)
Chorus.    Help vs to sing that be her faithful swains
Row:        O she alone the shepheards Queen,
Cho:        Her Flocke that leades,
            The goddesse of these medes,
            These mountaines and these plaines.

Row:        Those eyes of hers that are more cleere,
Cho:        Then silly shepheards can in song expresse,
Row:        Then be his beams that rule the yeare,
Cho:        Fy on that prayse,
            In striuing things to rayse:
            That doth but make them lesse.

Row:        That doe the flowery spring prolong,
Cho:        So much the earth doth in her presence ioy,
Row:        And keeps the plenteous summer young:
Cho:        And doth asswage
            The wrathfull wi...

                BATTE.

            Gorbo, as thou cam'st this waye
            By yonder little hill,
            Or as thou through the fields didst straye
            Sawst thou my Daffadill?

            Shee's in a frock of Lincolne greene
            The colour maides delight
            And neuer hath her beauty seen
            But through a vale of white.

            Then Roses richer to behold
            That trim vp louers bowers,
            The Pansy and the Marigould
            Tho Phoebus Paramours.

Gorbo.    Thou well describ'st the Daffadill
            It is not full an hower
            Since by the spring neare yonder hill
            I saw that louely flower.

Batte.    Yet my faire flower thou didst not m...

Motto.    Tell me thou skilfull shepheards swayne,
            Who's yonder in the vally set?
Perkin. O it is she whose sweets do stayne,
            The Lilly, Rose, or violet.

Motto.    Why doth the Sunne against his kind,
            Stay his bright Chariot in the skies,
Perkin. He pawseth almost stroken blind,
            With gazing on her heauenly eies:

Motto.    Why doe thy flocks forbeare their foode,
            Which somtyme was their chiefe delight,
Perkin. Because they neede no other good,
            That liue in presence of her sight:

Motto.    How com those flowers to florish still,
            Not withering with sharpe winters breath?
Perkin. She hath robd nature of her skill,
            And comforts all things with her breath:

Farre in the countrey of Arden
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
    as bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
    as was the good sir Topas.
He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
    a mayden fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
    of mickle curtesie.
The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
    and with the needle werke,
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
    and sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a frocke of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden Queene,
    which seemly was to see.
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
    yw...

            Borrill.

Oh spightfull wayward wretched loue,
Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,
Heauens and earth thy plagues doe proue,
Gods and men haue cause to curse thee.
Thoughts griefe, hearts woe,
Hopes paine, bodies languish,
Enuies rage, sleepes foe,
Fancies fraud, soules anguish,
Desires dread, mindes madnes,
Secrets bewrayer, natures error,
Sights deceit, sullens sadnes,
Speeches expence, Cupids terror,
Malcontents melancholly,
Liues slaughter, deaths nurse,
Cares slaue, dotard's folly,
Fortunes bayte, world's curse,
Lookes theft, eyes blindnes,
Selfes will, tongues treason,
Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes,
Furies frensie, follies reason:
With cursing thee as I began,
Neither God, neither man,
Neither Fayrie, n...

Now fye vpon thee wayward loue,
Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,
Heauen and earth thy plagues doe proue,
Gods and men haue cause to curse thee.
What art thou but th' extreamst madnesse,
Natures first and only error
That consum'st our daies in sadnesse,
By the minds Continuall terror:
Walking in Cymerian blindnesse,
In thy courses voy'd of reason.
Sharp reproofe thy only kindnesse,
In thy trust the highest treason?
Both the Nymph and ruder swaine,
Vexing with continuall anguish,
Which dost make the ould complaine
And the young to pyne and languishe,
Who thee keepes his care doth nurse,
That seducest all to folly,
Blessing, bitterly doest curse,
Tending to destruction wholly:
Thus of thee as I began,
So againe I make an end,
Neith...

Faire Loue rest thee heere,
Neuer yet was morne so cleere,
Sweete be not vnkinde,
Let me thy fauour finde,
        Or else for loue I die.

Harke this pretty bubling spring,
How it makes the Meadowes ring,
Loue now stand my friend,
Heere let all sorrow end,
        And I will honour thee.

See where little Cupid lyes,
Looking babies in her eyes.
Cupid helpe me now,
Lend to me thy bowe,
        To wound her that wounded me.

Heere is none to see or tell,
All our flocks are feeding by,
This Banke with Roses spred,
Oh it is a dainty bed,
        Fit for my Loue and me.

Harke the birds in yonder Groaue,
How they chaunt vnto my Loue,
Loue be kind to me,
As I haue beene to thee,
        For thou hast wonne...

Such was old Orpheus cunning,
That sencelesse things drew neere him,
And heards of beasts to heare him,
The stock, the stone, the Oxe, the Asse came running,
Morley! but this enchaunting
To thee, to be the Musick-God is wanting.
And yet thou needst not feare him;
Draw thou the Shepherds still and Bonny lasses,
And enuie him not stocks, stones, Oxen, Asses.

The Ryme nor marres, nor makes,
Nor addeth it, nor takes,
    From that which we propose;
Things imaginarie
Doe so strangely varie,
    That quickly we them lose.

And what 's quickly begot,
As soone againe is not,
    This doe I truely know:
Yea, and what 's borne with paine,
That Sense doth long'st retaine,
    Gone with a greater Flow.

Yet this Critick so sterne,
But whom, none must discerne,
    Nor perfectly haue seeing,
Strangely layes about him,
As nothing without him
    Were worthy of being.

That I my selfe betray
To that most publique way,
    Where the Worlds old Bawd,
Custome, that doth humor,
And by idle rumor,
    Her Dotages applaud.

That whilst he still prefers
Those that be wh...