Michael Drayton

To Time Stay, speedy Time, behold, before thou pass, From age to age what thou hast sought to see, One in whom all the excellencies be, In whom Heav’n looks itself as in a

You not alone, when you are still alone, O God, from you that I could private be. Since you one were, I never since was one; Since you in me, my self since out

An evil spirit, your beauty haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest, Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill, Nor gives me once but one poor minute’s rest; In

Nothing but “No,” and “Aye,” and “Aye,” and “No”? How falls it out so strangely you reply? I tell ye, Fair, I’ll not be answer’d so, With this affirming “No,” denying “Aye.” I say,

Into these Loves who but for Passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by And seek elsewhere, in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy. No far-fetch’d sigh

In former times such as had store of coin, In wars at home, or when for conquests bound, For fear that some their treasure should purloin, Gave it to keep to spirits within the

As Love and I, late harbor’d in one inn, With proverbs thus each other entertain: “In Love there is no lack,” thus I begin; “Fair words make fools,” replieth he again; “Who spares to

What? Dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart? To take all mine and give me none again? Or have thine eyes such magic or that art That what they get they ever

But let us leave Queen Mab a while, Through many a gate, o’er many a stile, That now had gotten by this wile, Her dear Pigwiggen kissing; And tell how Oberon doth fare, Who

To Humor You cannot love, my pretty heart, and why? There was a time you told me that you would; But now again you will the same deny, If it might please you, would

Plain-path’d Experience, th’unlearned’s guide, Her simple followers evidently shows Sometimes what Schoolmen scarcely can decide, Nor yet wise Reason absolutely knows. In making trial of a murther wrought, If the vile actors of the

To the Critic Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace, Turning my papers asks, “What have we here?” Making withal some filthy antic face. I fear

To the Soul That learned Father, who so firmly proves The Soul of man immortal and divine, And doth the several offices define: Anima – Gives her that name, as she the Body moves;

My heart was slain, and none but you and I; Who should I think the murther should commit, Since but yourself there was no creature by, But only I, guiltless of murth’ring it? It

When first I ended, then I first began, The more I travell’d, further from my rest, Where most I lost, there most of all I wan, Pined with hunger rising from a feast. Methinks

NEAR to the silver Trent SIRENA dwelleth; She to whom Nature lent All that excelleth; By which the Muses late And the neat Graces Have for their greater state Taken their places; Twisting an

Yet read at last the story of my woe, The dreary abstracts of my endless cares, With my life’s sorrow interlined so, Smok’d with my sighs and blotted with my tears, The sad memorials

Define my weal, and tell the joys of Heav’n; Express my woes, and show the pains of Hell; Declare what fate unlucky stars have giv’n, And ask a world upon my life to dwell;

Some, when in rhyme they of their loves do tell, With flames and lightnings their exordiums paint; Some call on Heav’n, some invocate on Hell, And Fates and Furies with their woes acquaint. Elysium

As in some countries far remote from hence The wretched creature destined to die, Having the judgement due to his offence, By surgeons begg’d, their art on him to try, Which, on the living,

His Remedy for Love Since to obtain thee nothing will be stead, I have a med’cine that shall cure my love, The powder of her heart dried, when she is dead, That gold nor

Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe, Duly to count the sum of all my cares, I find my griefs innumerable grow, The reckonings rise to millions of despairs; And thus dividing

Cupid, I hate thee, which I’d have thee know; A naked starveling ever may’st thou be. Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow For some few rags wherewith to cover thee. Or,

Love, banish’d Heav’n, on Earth was held in scorn, Wand’ring abroad in need and beggary, And wanting friends, though of a Goddess born, Yet crav’d the alms of such as passed by. I, like

Calling to mind since first my love begun, Th’ incertain times oft varying in their course, How things still unexpectedly have run, As t’ please the fates by their resistless force: Lastly, mine eyes

You brave heroic minds, Worthy your country’s name, That honour still pursue, Go, and subdue, Whilst loit’ring hinds Lurke here at home with shame. Britons, you stay too long, Quickly aboard bestow you; And

To the Senses When conquering Love did first my Heart assail, Unto mine aid I summon’d every Sense, Doubting, if that proud tyrant should prevail, My Heart should suffer for mine Eyes’ offence; But

An Allusion to the Phoenix ‘Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round Of the birds’ kind, the Phoenix is alone, Which best by you of living things is known; None like to that,

Our flood’s-queen Thames for ships and swans is crown’d, And stately Severn for her shore is prais’d, The crystal Trent for fords and fish renown’d, And Avon’s fame to Albion’s cliffs is rais’d; Carlegion

Dear, why should you command me to my rest When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best; Night was ordain’d together friends to keep. How happy are

Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign 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

Sitting alone, Love bids me go and write; Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay, Boasting that she doth still direct the way, Or else Love were unable to endite. Love, growing angry, vexed

Clear Ancor, on whose silver-sanded shore My soul-shrin’d saint, my fair Idea lies, O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore Thy crystal stream, refined by her eyes, Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring

To Despair I ever love where never hope appears, Yet hope draws on my never-hoping care, And my life’s hope would die, but for despair; My never-certain joy breeds ever-certain fears; Uncertain dread gives

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

Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize thee, Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face, Where in the map of all my misery Is modell’d out the world of my disgrace. Whilst,

Calling to mind, since first my love begun, Th’uncertain times oft varying in their course, How things still unexpectedly have run, As it please the Fates, by their resistless force. Lastly mine eyes amazedly

Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance; Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his

To the Shadow Letters and lines we see are soon defac’d, Metals do waste and fret with canker’s rust, The diamond shall once consume to dust, And freshest colors with foul stains disgrac’d; Paper

Muses, which sadly sit about my chair, Drown’d in the tears extorted by my lines, With heavy sighs whilst thus I break the air, Painting my passions in these sad designs, Since she disdains