Minor Poems of Michael Drayton Part 6

Sonet 14

_To the Soule_

That learned Father which so firmly proues The soule of man immortall and diuine, And doth the seuerall offices define, _Anima._ Giues her that name as shee the body moues, _Amor._ Then is she loue imbracing Charitie, _Animus._ Mouing a will in vs, it is the mind, _Mens._ Retayning knowledge, still the same in kind; _Memoria._ As intelectuall it is the memorie, _Ratio._ In judging, Reason onely is her name, _Sensus._ In speedy apprehension it is sence, _Conscientia._ In right or wrong, they call her conscience.

_Spiritus._ The spirit, when it to G.o.dward doth inflame.

These of the soule the seuerall functions bee, Which my hart lightned by thy loue doth see.

Sonet 21

You cannot loue my pretty hart, and why?

There was a time, you told me that you would, But now againe you will the same deny, If it might please you, would to G.o.d you could; What will you hate? nay, that you will not neither, Nor loue, nor hate, how then? what will you do, What will you keepe a meane then betwixt eyther?

Or will you loue me, and yet hate me to?

Yet serues not this, what next, what other s.h.i.+ft?

You will, and will not, what a coyle is heere, I see your craft, now I perceaue your drift, And all this while, I was mistaken there.

Your loue and hate is this, I now doe proue you, You loue in hate, by hate to make me loue you.

Sonet 22

An euill spirit your beauty haunts me still, Where-with (alas) I haue been long possest, Which ceaseth not to tempt me vnto ill, Nor giues me once but one pore minutes rest.

In me it speakes, whether I sleepe or wake, And when by meanes to driue it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extreamity.

Before my face, it layes all my dispaires, And hasts me on vnto a suddaine death; Now tempting me, to drown my selfe in teares, And then in sighing to giue vp my breath: Thus am I still prouok'd to euery euill, By this good wicked spirit, sweet Angel deuill.

Sonet 23

_To the Spheares_

Thou which do'st guide this little world of loue, Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold, My brow the spheare where _Saturne_ still doth moue, Wrinkled with cares: and withered, dry, and cold; Mine eyes the Orbe where _Iupiter_ doth trace, Which gently smile because they looke on thee, _Mars_ in my swarty visage takes his place, Made leane with loue, where furious conflicts bee.

_Sol_ in my breast with his hote scorching flame, And in my hart alone doth _Venus_ raigne: _Mercury_ my hands the Organs of thy fame, And _Luna_ glides in my fantastick braine; The starry heauen thy prayse by me exprest, Thou the first moouer, guiding all the rest.

Sonet 24

Love banish'd heauen, in earth was held in scorne, Wandring abroad in neede and beggery, And wanting friends though of a G.o.ddesse borne, Yet crau'd the almes of such as pa.s.sed by.

I like a man, deuout and charitable; Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wandring guest, With sighs and teares still furnis.h.i.+ng his table, With what might make the miserable blest; But this vngratefull for my good desart, Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gaue consent to steale away my hart, And set my breast his lodging on a fire: Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold, No meruaile then though charity grow cold.

Sonet 25

O why should nature nigardly restraine, The Sotherne Nations relish not our tongue, Else should my lines glide on the waues of Rhene, And crowne the Pirens with my liuing song; But bounded thus to Scotland get you forth: Thence take you wing vnto the Orcades, There let my verse get glory in the North, Making my sighs to thawe the frozen seas, And let the Bards within the Irish Ile, To whom my Muse with fiery wings shall pa.s.se, Call backe the stifneckd rebels from exile, And molifie the slaughtering Galligla.s.se: And when my flowing numbers they rehea.r.s.e, Let Wolues and Bears be charmed with my verse.

Sonet 27

I gaue my faith to Loue, Loue his to mee, That hee and I, sworne brothers should remaine, Thus fayth receiu'd, fayth giuen back againe, Who would imagine bond more sure could be?

Loue flies to her, yet holds he my fayth taken, Thus from my vertue raiseth my offence, Making me guilty by mine innocence; And surer bond by beeing so forsaken, He makes her aske what I before had vow'd, Giuing her that, which he had giuen me, I bound by him, and he by her made free, Who euer so hard breach of fayth alow'd?

Speake you that should of right and wrong discusse, Was right ere wrong'd, or wrong ere righted thus?

Sonet 29

_To the Sences_

When conquering loue did first my hart a.s.saile, Vnto mine ayde I summond euery sence, Doubting if that proude tyrant should preuaile, My hart should suffer for mine eyes offence; But he with beauty, first corrupted sight, My hearing bryb'd with her tongues harmony, My taste, by her sweet lips drawne with delight, My smelling wonne with her breaths spicerie; But when my touching came to play his part, (The King of sences, greater than the rest) That yeelds loue up the keyes vnto my hart, And tells the other how they should be blest; And thus by those of whom I hop'd for ayde, To cruell Loue my soule was first betrayd.

Sonet 30

_To the Vestalls_

Those Priests, which first the Vestall fire begun, Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame, Deuisd a vessell to receiue the sunne, Beeing stedfastly opposed to the same; Where with sweet wood laid curiously by Art, Whereon the sunne might by reflection beate, Receiuing strength from euery secret part, The fuell kindled with celestiall heate.

Thy blessed eyes, the sunne which lights this fire, My holy thoughts, they be the Vestall flame, The precious odors be my chast desire, My breast the fuell which includes the same; Thou art my Vesta, thou my G.o.ddesse art, Thy hollowed Temple, onely is my hart.

Sonet 31

Me thinks I see some crooked Mimick ieere And taxe my Muse with this fantastick grace, Turning my papers, asks what haue we heere?

Making withall, some filthy anticke face; I feare no censure, nor what thou canst say, Nor shall my spirit one iote of vigor lose, Think'st thou my wit shall keepe the pack-horse way, That euery dudgen low inuention goes?

Since Sonnets thus in bundles are imprest, And euery drudge doth dull our satiate eare, Think'st thou my loue, shall in those rags be drest That euery dowdie, euery trull doth weare?

Vnto my pitch no common iudgement flies, I scorne all earthlie dung-bred scarabies.

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.

Sonet 43

Whilst thus my pen striues to eternize thee, Age rules my lines with wrincles in my face, Where in the Map of all my misery, Is modeld out the world of my disgrace, Whilst in despight of tyrannizing times, _Medea_ like I make thee young againe, Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rimes, And murther'st vertue with thy coy disdaine; And though in youth, my youth vntimely perrish, To keepe thee from obliuion and the graue, Ensuing ages yet my rimes shall cherrish, Where I entomb'd, my better part shall saue; And though this earthly body fade and die My name shall mount vpon eternitie.

Sonet 44

Muses which sadly sit about my chayre, Drownd in the teares extorted by my lines, With heauy sighs whilst thus I breake the ayre, Paynting my pa.s.sions in these sad dissignes, Since she disdaines to blesse my happy verse, The strong built Trophies to her liuing fame, Euer hence-forth my bosome be your hea.r.s.e, Wherein the world shal now entombe her name, Enclose my musick you poor sencelesse walls, Sith she is deafe and will not heare my mones, Soften your selues with euery teare that falls, Whilst I like _Orpheus_ sing to trees and stones: Which with my plaints seeme yet with pitty moued, Kinder then she who I so long haue loued.

Sonet 45

Thou leaden braine, which censur'st what I write, And say'st my lines be dull and doe not moue, I meruaile not thou feelst not my delight, Which neuer felt my fiery tuch of loue.

But thou whose pen hath like a Pack-horse seru'd, Whose stomack vnto gaule hath turn'd thy foode, Whose sences like poore prisoners hunger-staru'd, Whose griefe hath parch'd thy body, dry'd thy blood.

Thou which hast scorned life, and hated death, And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry, Thou which hast band thy thoughts and curst thy breath, With thousand plagues more then in purgatory.

Thou thus whose spirit Loue in his fire refines, Come thou and reade, admire, applaud my lines.