Idea

Michael Drayton

           XXI

A witless gallant a young wench that woo'd

(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move),

Entreated me, as e'er I wish'd his good,

To write him but one sonnet to his love;

When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,

Pour'd out what first from quick invention came,

Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,

Much like his wit that was to use the same;

But with my verses he his mistress won,

Which doted on the dolt beyond all measure.

But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run,

And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure;

Yet by my froth this fool his love obtains,

And I lose you for all my love and pains.

           XXII

        To Folly

With fools and children, good discretion bears;

Then, honest people, bear with Love and me,

Nor older yet, nor wiser made by years,

Amongst the rest of fools and children be;

Love, still a baby, plays with gauds and toys,

And, like a wanton, sports with every feather,

And idiots still are running after boys,

Then fools and children fitt'st to go together.

He still as young as when he first was born,

No wiser I than when as young as he;

You that behold us, laugh us not to scorn;

Give Nature thanks you are not such as we.

Yet fools and children sometimes tell in play

Some, wise in show, more fools indeed than they.

           XXIII

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 a man devout and charitable,

Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,

With sighs and tears still furnishing his table

With what might make the miserable blest.

But this ungrateful, for my good desert,

Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,

Who gave consent to steal away my heart,

And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.

Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,

No marvel then though charity grow cold.

           XXIV

I hear some say, "This man is not in love."

"What? Can he love? A likely thing," they say;

"Read but his verse, and it will easily prove."

O judge not rashly, gentle Sir, I pray.

Because I trifle loosely in this sort,

As one that fain his sorrows would beguile,

You now suppose me all this time in sport,

And please yourself with this conceit the while.

Ye shallow censors, sometime see ye not

In greatest perils some men pleasant be?

Where fame by death is only to be got,

They resolute? So stands the case with me.

Where other men in depth of passion cry,

I laugh at Fortune, as in jest to die.

           XXV

O why should Nature niggardly restrain

That foreign nations relish not our tongue?

Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhene

And crown the Pyrens with my living song.

But, bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth,

Thence take you wing unto the Orcades;

There let my verse get glory in the North,

Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas;

And let the Bards within that Irish isle,

To whom my Muse with fiery wing shall pass,

Call back the stiff-neck'd rebels from exile,

And mollify the slaught'ring Gallowglass;

And when my flowing numbers they rehearse,

Let wolves and bears be charmed with my verse.

           XXVI

        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 wings unto my hope,

Yet my hope's wings are laden so with fear

As they cannot ascend to my hope's sphere;

Though fear gives them more than a heav'nly scope,

Yet this large room is bounded with despair;

So my love is still fetter'd with vain hope,

And liberty deprives him of his scope,

And thus am I imprison'd in the air.

Then, sweet despair, awhile hold up thy head,

Or all my hope for sorrow will be dead.

           XXVII

Is not Love here as 'tis in other climes,

And differeth it, as do the several nations?

Or hath it lost the virtue with the times,

Or in this island altereth with the fashions?

Or have our passions lesser power than theirs,

Who had less art them lively to express?

Is Nature grown less powerful in their heirs,

Or in our fathers did she more transgress?

I am sure my sighs come from a heart as true

As any man's that memory can boast,

And my respects and services to you

Equal with his that loves his mistress most.

Or nature must be partial to my cause,

Or only you do violate her laws.

           XXVIII

To such as say thy love I overprize,

And do not stick to term my praises folly,

Against these folks, that think themselves so wise,

I thus oppose my Reason's forces wholly,

Though I give more than well affords my state,

In which expense the most suppose me vain,

Which yields them nothing at the easiest rate,

Yet at this price returns me treble gain.

They value not, unskillful how to use,

And I give much, because I gain thereby;

I that thus take, or they that thus refuse,

Whether are these deceived then, or I?

In everything I hold this maxim still:

The circumstance doth make it good or ill.

           XXIX

        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 he with Beauty first corrupted Sight,

My Hearing bribed with her tongue's harmony,

My Taste by her sweet lips drawn with delight,

My Smelling won with her breath's spicery.

But when my Touching came to play his part

(The King of Senses, greater than the rest),

He yields Love up the keys unto my Heart,

And tells the other how they should be blest.

And thus by those of whom I hop'd for aid

To cruel Love my Soul was first betray'd.

           XXX

        To the Vestals

Those priests which first the Vestal fire begun,

Which might be borrow'd from no earthly flame,

Devis'd a vessel to receive the Sun,

Being steadfastly opposed to the same;

Where, with sweet wood, laid curiously by art,

On which the Sun might by reflection beat,

Receiving strength from every secret part,

The fuel kindled with celestial heat.

Thy blessed eyes the sun which lights this fire,

Thy holy thoughts, they be the Vestal flame,

The precious odors be my chaste desire,

My breast's the vessel which includes the same.

Thou art my Vesta, thou my Goddess art;

Thy hallow'd temple only is my Heart.

           XXXI

        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 no censure, nor what thou canst say,

Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigor lose;

Think'st thou my wit shall keep the pack-horse way

That every dudgen low invention goes?

Since sonnets thus in bundles are imprest

And every drudge doth dull our satiate ear,

Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be drest

That every dowdy, every trull, doth wear?

Up to my pitch no common judgement flies;

I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.

           XXXII

        To the River Anker

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 Chester vaunts her holy Dee,

York many wonders of her Ouse can tell,

The Peak her Dove, whose banks so fertile be,

And Kent will say her Medway doth excell;

Cotswold commends her Isis to the Thame,

Our Northern borders boast of Tweed's fair flood,

Our Western parts extol their Wylye's fame,

And the old Lea brags of the Danish blood.

Arden's sweet Anker, let thy glory be,

That fair Idea only lives by thee.

           XXXIII

        To Imagination

Whilst yet mine Eyes do surfeit with delight,

My woeful Heart, imprison'd in my breast,

Wisheth to be transformed to my sight,

That it, like these, by looking might be blest.

But whilst my 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, or that my Heart could see.

           XXXIV

        To Admiration

Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,

Ravish'd a world beyond the farthest thought,

And knowing more than ever hath been taught,

That I am only starv'd in my desire.

Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,

Aiming at things exceeding all perfection,

To Wisdom's self to minister correction,

That I am only starv'd 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 starv'd in my desire.

If thou wilt wonder, here's the wonder, Love:

That this to me doth yet no wonder prove.

           XXXV

        To Miracle

Some, misbelieving and profane in love,

When I do speak of miracles by thee,

May say, that thou art flattered by me,

Who only write my skill in verse to prove.

See miracles, ye unbelieving, see

A dumb-born Muse made t'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 healed be,

My vices cur'd by virtues sprung from thee,

My hopes reviv'd, which long in grave had lien*,             [lain]

All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me

Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.

           XXXVI

        Cupid Conjured

Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack

To wound her heart, whose eyes have wounded me,

And suffer'd her to glory in my wrack,

Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee:

By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears,

By thy fair mother's unavoided power,

By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears

When she was rapt to the infernal bower,

By thine own loved Psyche, by the fires

Spent on thine alters flaming up to heav'n,

By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires,

By all the wounds that ever thou hast giv'n:

I conjure thee by all that I have nam'd

To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damn'd.

           XXXVII

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 all other living things

Which through the day disjoin by sev'ral flight,

The quiet ev'ning yet together brings,

And each returns unto his love at night.

O thou, that art so courteous else to all,

Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus,

That ev'ry creature to his kind dost call,

And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us?

Well could I wish it would be ever day,

If when night comes you bid me go away.

           XXXVIII

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 at the spleen

And scorning Reason's maimed argument,

Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,

Where she with Love conversing hath not been.

Reason, reproached with this coy disdain,

Despiteth Love, and laugheth at her folly;

And Love, condemning Reason's reason wholly,

Thought it in weight too light by many'a grain.

Reason, put back, doth out of sight remove,

And Love alone picks reason out of love.

           XXXIX

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 is too high a seat for me;

I will not come in Styx or Phlegethon;

The thrice-three Muses but too wanton be;

Like they that lust, I care not; I will none.

Spiteful Erinnys frights me with her looks;

My manhood dares not with foul Ate mell;

I quake to look on Hecate's charming books;

I still fear bugbears in Apollo's cell.

I pass not for Minerva nor Astraea;

Only I call on my divine Idea.

           XL

My heart the anvil where my thoughts do beat;

My words the hammers fashioning my desire;

My breast the forge including all the heat;

Love is the fuel which maintains the fire;

My sighs the bellows which the flame increaseth,

Filling mine ears with noise and nightly groaning;

Toiling with pain, my labor never ceaseth,

In grievous passions my woes still bemoaning;

My eyes with tears against the fire striving,

Whose scorching gleed* my heart to cinders turneth,             [a live coal]

But with these drops the flame again reviving,

Still more and more it to my torment turneth.

With Sisyphus thus do I roll the stone,

And turn the wheel with damned Ixion.

     Continued...



Poets' Corner - Home   |    The Other Pages

©1994-2020 Poets' Corner Editorial Staff, All Rights Reserved Worldwide