Michael Drayton

You brave Heroique Minds, Worthy your countries name, That honour still pursue, Goe, and subdue, Whilst loyt'ring Hinds Lurke here at home, with shame. Britans , you stay too long, Quickly aboord bestow you, And with a merry Gale Swell your stretch'd Sayle, With Vowes as strong, As the Winds that blow you. Your Course securely steere, West and by South forth keepe, Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Sholes, When Eolus scowles, You need not feare, So absolute the Deepe. And cheerfully at Sea, Successe you still intice, To get the Pearle and Gold, And ours to hold, Virginia , Earth's onely Paradise. Where nature hath in store Fowle, Venison, and Fish, And the fruitfull'st Soyle, Without your Toyle, Three Harvests more, All greater than your wish. And the ambitious Vine Crownes with his purple Masse, The Cedar reaching hie To kisse the Sky, The Cypresse, Pine And use-full Sassafras. To whose, the golden Age Still Natures lawes doth give, No other Cares that tend, But Them to defend From Winters age, That long there doth not live. When as the Lushious smell Of that delicious Land, Above the Seas that flowes, The cleere Wind throwes, Your Hearts to swell Approching the deare Strand. In kenning of the Shore, (Thanks to God first given,) O you, the happy'st men, Be Frolike then, Let Cannons roare, Frighting the wide Heaven. And in Regions farre Such Heroes bring yee foorth, As those from whom We came, And plant Our name, Under that Starre Not knowne unto our North. And as there Plenty growes Of Lawrell every where, Apollo's Sacred tree, You it may see, A Poets Browes To crowne, that may sing there. Thy Voyage attend, Industrious Whose Reading shall inflame Men to seeke Fame, And much commend To after-times thy Wit.

1 Shep. Tell me, thou gentle shepherd swain, Who’s yonder in the vale is set? 2 Shep. Oh, it is she, whose sweets do stain The lily, rose, the violet! 1 Shep. Why doth the sun against his kind, Fix his bright chariot in the skies? 2 Shep. Because the sun is stricken blind With looking on her heavenly eyes. 1 Shep. Why do thy flocks forbear their food, Which sometime were thy chief delight? 2 Shep. Because they need no other good That live in presence of her sight. 1 Shep. Why look these flowers so pale and ill, That once attired this goodly heath? 2 Shep. She hath robb’d Nature of her skill, And sweetens all things with her breath. 1 Shep. Why slide these brooks so slow away, Whose bubbling murmur pleased thine ear? 2 Shep. Oh, marvel not although they stay, When they her heavenly voice do hear! 1 Shep. From whence come all these shepherd swains, And lovely nymphs attired in green? 2 Shep. From gathering garlands on the plains, To crown our fair the shepherds’ queen. Both. The sun that lights this world below, Flocks, flowers, and brooks will witness bear: These nymphs and shepherds all do know, That it is she is only fair.

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 labour satisfy. No far-fetch'd sigh shall ever wound my breast; Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring; Nor in "Ah me's!" my whining sonnets drest: A libertine, fantasticly I sing. My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change; And as thus to variety inclin'd, So in all humours sportively I range: My Muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain.

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!

How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapp'd in their winding-sheet? Where I to thee eternity shall give, When nothing else remaineth of these days, And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise. Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes Shall be so much delighted with thy story, That they shall grieve they liv'd not in these times To have seen thee, their sex's only glory. So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.

To Proverbs As Love and I, late harbour’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 speak, doth spare to speed (quoth I), As well (saith he) too forward, as too slow; Fortune assists the boldest, I reply, A hasty man (quoth he) ne’er wanted woe; Labour is light, where love (quoth I) doth pay, (Saith he) light burthen’s heavy, if far born; (Quoth I) the main lost, cast the bye away; You have spun a fair thread, he replies in scorn. And having thus awhile each other thwarted, Fools as we met, so fools again we parted.

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 Gently distils his nectar-dropping showers, Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers; Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen: Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wand'ring years, And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been, And here to thee he sacrific'd his tears. Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone, And thou, sweet Ancor, art my Helicon.

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 amazedly have seen Essex' great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain, The quiet end of that long-living Queen, This King's fair entrance, and our peace with Spain, We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever: Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel. Yet to my goddess am I constant ever, Howe'er blind fortune turn her giddy wheel: Though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue, Yet am I still inviolate to you.

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 the ploughman gaze the wandering star, And only rest contented with the light, That never learned what constellations are, Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight, O! why should beauty, custom to obey, To their gross sense apply herself so ill? Would God I were as ignorant as they, When I am made unhappy by my skill; Only compelled on this poor good to boast, Heavens are not kind to them that know them most.

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, though 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 should'st 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.