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The Works of Michael Drayton

Edited by J. William Hebel

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[SONNETS NOT PRINTED IN IDEAS MIRROUR, 1594, OR IN IDEA, 1619]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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485

[SONNETS NOT PRINTED IN IDEAS MIRROUR, 1594, OR IN IDEA, 1619]

Sonet. 3.

[_]

[From the Sonnets appended to Englands Heroicall Epistles, 1599.]

Many there be excelling in this kind,
Whose well trick'd rimes with all invention swell,
Let each commend as best shall like his minde,
Some Sidney, Constable, some Daniell.
That thus theyr names familiarly I sing,
Let none thinke them disparaged to be,
Poore men with reverence may speake of a King,
And so may these be spoken of by mee;
My wanton verse nere keepes one certaine stay,
But now, at hand; then, seekes invention far,
And with each little motion runnes astray,
Wilde, madding, jocond, & irreguler;
Like me that lust, my honest mery rimes,
Nor care for Criticke, nor regard the times.

Sonet. 9.

[_]

[From the Sonnets appended to Englands Heroicall Epistles, 1599.]

Love once would daunce within my Mistres eye,
And wanting musique fitting for the place,
Swore that I should the Instrument supply,
And sodainly presents me with her face:
Straightwayes my pulse playes lively in my vaines,
My panting breath doth keepe a meaner time,
My quav'ring artiers be the Tenours straynes,
My trembling sinewes serve the Counterchime,
My hollow sighs the deepest base doe beare,
True diapazon in distincted sound:
My panting hart the treble makes the ayre,
And descants finely on the musiques ground;
Thus like a Lute or Violl did I lye,
Whilst he proud slave daunc'd galliards in her eye.

486

To the Moone. Sonet. 11.

[_]

[From the Sonnets appended to Englands Heroicall Epistles, 1599.]

Phœbe looke downe, and here behold in mee,
The elements within thy sphere inclosed,
How kindly Nature plac'd them under thee,
And in my world, see how they are disposed;
My hope is earth, the lowest, cold and dry,
The grosser mother of deepe melancholie,
Water my teares, coold with humidity,
Wan, flegmatick, inclind by nature wholie;
My sighs, the ayre, hote, moyst, ascending hier,
Subtile of sanguine, dy'de in my harts dolor,
My thoughts, they be the element of fire,
Hote, dry, and percing, still inclind to choller,
Thine eye the Orbe unto all these, from whence,
Proceeds th'effects of powerfull influence.

To the Spheares. Sonet. 23.

[_]

[From the Sonnets appended to Englands Heroicall Epistles, 1599.]

Thou which do'st guide this little world of love,
Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold,
My brow the spheare where Saturne still doth move,
Wrinkled with cares: and withered, dry, and cold;
Mine eyes the Orbe where Jupiter doth trace,
Which gently smile because they looke on thee,
Mars in my swarty visage takes his place,
Made leane with love, 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 heaven thy prayse by me exprest,
Thou the first moover, guiding all the rest.

487

Sonet. 27.

[_]

[From the Sonnets appended to Englands Heroicall Epistles, 1599.]

I gave my fayth to Love, Love his to mee,
That hee and I, sworne brothers should remaine,
Thus fayth receiv'd, fayth given backe againe,
Who would imagine bond more sure could be?
Love 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,
Giving her that, which he had given me,
I bound by him, and he by her made free,
Who ever 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?

A Cansonet. Sonet. 56.

[_]

[From the Sonnets appended to Englands Heroicall Epistles, 1599.]

Eyes with your teares, blind if you bee,
Why have these teares such eyes to see,
Poore eyes, if yours teares cannot move,
My teares, eyes, then must mone my love,
Then eyes, since you have lost your sight,
Weepe still, and teares shall lend you light,
Till both desolv'd, and both want might.
No, no, cleere eyes, you are not blind,
But in my teares discerne my mind:
Teares be the language which you speake,
Which my hart wanting, yet must breake;
My tongue must cease to tell my wrongs,
And make my sighs to get them tongs,
Yet more then this to her belongs.