Michael Drayton

Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer And tax my muse with this fantastic grace, Turning my papers, asks "what have we here?" Making withall some filthy antic face. I fear no censure, nor what thou canst say, Nor shall my spirit one jot of vigour lose. Think'st thou my wit shall keep the pack-horse way That ev'ry dudgeon low invention goes? Since sonnets thus in bundles are impress'd, And ev'ry drudge doth dull our satiate ear, Think'st thou my love shall in those rags be dress'd That ev'ry dowdy, ev'ry trull doth wear? Up to my pitch no common judgment flies: I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.

An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possess'd, Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill, Nor gives me once but one poor minute's rest. In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake; And when by means to drive it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extremity. Before my face it lays down my despairs, And hastes me on unto a sudden death; Now tempting me to drown myself in tears, And then in sighing to give up my breath. Thus am I still provok'd to every evil By this good-wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.

If he from heaven that filched that living fire Condemned by Jove to endless torment be, I greatly marvel how you still go free, That far beyond Prometheus did aspire. The fire he stole, although of heavenly kind, Which from above he craftily did take, Of liveless clods, us living men to make, He did bestow in temper of the mind. But you broke into heaven’s immortal store, Where virtue, honor, wit, and beauty lay; Which taking thence you have escaped away, Yet stand as free as ere you did before; Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape. Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater ‘scape.

Three sorts of serpents do resemble thee: That dangerous eye-killing cockatrice, The enchanting siren, which doth so entice, The weeping crocodile—these vile pernicious three. The basilisk his nature takes from thee, Who for my life in secret wait dost lie, And to my heart sendst poison from thine eye: Thus do I feel the pain, the cause, yet cannot see. Fair-maid no more, but Mer-maid be thy name, Who with thy sweet alluring harmony Hast played the thief, and stolen my heart from me, And like a tyrant makst my grief thy game: Thou crocodile, who when thou hast me slain, Lamentst my death, with tears of thy disdain.