 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
Florence, a City of Tuscan, standing upon the river Arnus (celebrated by Dante, Petrarch, and other the most Noble Wits of Italie) was the originall of the Family, out of which, this Geraldine did spring, as Ireland the place of her birth, which is intimated by these Verses of the Earle of Surrey.
Faire Florence was sometimes her ancient seate,
The Westerne Isle, whose pleasant shore doth face
Wilde Cambers Cliffes, did give her lively heate.
From whence thy Race, thy noble grandsirs came,
To famous England, that kind Nurse of mine,
Thy Surrey sends to heav'nly Geraldine:
Yet let not Tuscan thinke I doe it wrong,
That I from thence write in my Native Tongue,
That in these harsh-tun'd Cadences I sing,
Sitting so neere the Muses sacred Spring;
But rather thinke it selfe adorn'd thereby,
That England reades the prayse of Italy.
Though to the Tuscans I the smoothnesse grant,
Our Dialect no Majestie doth want,
To set thy praises in as high a Key,
As France, or Spaine, or Germanie, or they.
And that my Ship her course for Flanders bent,
Yet thinke I with how many a heavy looke,
My leave of England and of thee I tooke,
And did intreate the Tide (if it might be)
But to convey me one sigh backe to thee.
Taking my sigh, and downe againe it slips;
Into the Gulfe, it selfe it headlong throwes,
And as a Post to England-ward it goes.
As I sate wondring how the rough Seas stird,
I might farre off perceive a little Bird,
Which as she faine from Shore to Shore would flie,
Had lost her selfe in the broad vastie Skie,
Her feeble Wing beginning to deceive her,
The Seas of life still gaping to bereave her;
Unto the Ship she makes, which she discovers,
And there (poore foole) a while for refuge hovers;
And when at length her flagging Pinnion failes,
Panting she hangs upon the rattling Sailes,
And being forc'd to loose her hold with paine,
Yet beaten off, she straight lights on againe,
And tos'd with flawes, with stormes, with wind, with weather,
Yet still departing thence, still turneth thither:
Now with the Poope, now with the Prow doth beare,
Now on this side, now that, now here, now there:
Me thinks these Stormes should be my sad depart;
The silly helplesse Bird is my poore heart,
The Ship, to which for succour it repaires,
That is your selfe, regardlesse of my cares.
Of every Surge doth fall, or Waves doth rise,
To some one thing I sit and moralize.
Divine Erasmus, and our famous Moore,
Whose happy presence gave me such delight,
As made a minute of a Winters night;
With whom a while I staid at Roterdame,
Now so renowned by Erasmus name.
Yet every houre did seeme a world of time,
Till I had seene that sole-reviving Clime,
And thought the foggie Netherlands unfit,
A watry Soyle to clogge a fiery wit;
And as that wealthy Germany I past,
Comming unto the Emperours Court at last,
Cornelius Agrippa, a man in his time so famous for Magicke (which the bookes published by him, concerning that argument, doe partly prove) as in this place needs no further remembrance. Howbeit, as those abstruse and gloomie Arts are but illusions: so in the honour of so rare a Gentleman as this Earle (and therewithall so Noble a Poet; a qualitie, by which his other Titles receive their greatest lustre) Invention may make somewhat more bolde with Agrippa above the barren truth.
Who the infernall secrets doth impart,
When of thy health I did desire to know,
Me in a Glasse my Geraldine did show,
Sicke in thy Bed, and for thou could'st not sleepe,
By a Waxe Taper set the Light to keepe;
I doe remember thou did'st reade that Ode,
Sent backe whil'st I in Thanet made abode,
Where when thou cam'st unto that word of Love,
Even in thine eyes I saw how passion strove;
That Snowie Lawne which covered thy Bed,
Me thought look'd white, to see thy Cheeke so red,
Thy Rosie Cheeke oft changing in my sight,
Yet still was red, to see the Lawne so white;
The little Taper which should give thee light,
Me thought wax'd dimme, to see thine Eye so bright;
Thine Eye againe supply'd the Tapers turne,
And with his Beames more brightly made it burne,
The shrugging Ayre about thy Temples hurles,
And wrapt thy Breath in little clowded curles,
And as it did ascend, it straight did seaze it,
And as it sunke, it presently did raise it;
Canst thou by sicknesse banish beautie so?
Which if put from thee, knowes not where to goe,
To make her shift, and for her succour seeke,
To every rivel'd Face, each bankrupt Cheeke.
“If health preserv'd, thou Beautie still do'st cherish,
“If that neglected, Beautie soone doth perish.
Care drawes on Care, Woe comforts Woe againe,
Sorrow breeds Sorrow, one Griefe brings forth twaine:
If live or die, as thou do'st, so doe I,
If live, I live, and if thou die, I die,
One Heart, one Love, one Joy, one Griefe, one Troth,
One Good, one Ill, one Life, one Death to both.
Or not esteem'st of Norfolk's Princely Stile,
If Scotlands Coate no marke of Fame can lend,
The blazon of the Howards Honourable Armour, was, Gules betweene sixe crosselets Fitchy a bend Argent, to which afterwards was added by atchievement, In the Canton point of the Bend, an escutcheon, or within the Scottish tressure, a Demi-lion-rampant Gules, &c. as Master Camden, now Clerenceaux, from authoritie noteth. Never shall Time or bitter Envie be able to obscure the brightnesse of so great a Victorie as that, for which this addition was obtained. The Historian of Scotland, George Buchanan, reporteth, That the Earle of Surrey gave for his badge a Silver Lion (which from antiquitie belonged to that name) tearing in pieces A Lion prostrate Gules; and withall, that this which he termes insolence, was punished in him and his posteritie, as if it were fatall to the Conquerour, to doe his Soveraigne such Loyall service, as a thousand such severe censurers were never able to performe.
The Battell was fought at Bramston, neere Floden Hill, being a part of the Cheviot, a Mountaine that exceedeth all the Mountaines in the North of England for bignesse; in which, the wilfull Perjurie of James the fifth was punished from Heaven by the Earle of Surrey, being left by King Henry the eight (then in France before Turwin) for the defence of his Realme.
When the Proud Cheviot our brave Ensigne bare,
As a Rich Jewell in a Ladyes Haire,
And did faire Bramstons neighbouring Vallies choke
With Clouds of Canons, fire-disgorged Smoke,
Or Surreys Earledome insufficient be,
And not a Dower so well contenting thee;
Yet am I one of great Apollo's Heires,
The sacred Muses challenge me for theirs.
By Princes, my immortall Lines are sung,
My flowing Verses grac'd with ev'ry Tongue;
The little Children when they learne to goe,
By painefull Mothers daded to and fro,
Are taught my sugred Numbers to rehearse,
And have their sweet Lips season'd with my Verse.
And put an Angels Spirit into a Man,
The utmost pow'r it hath, it then doth spend,
When to the World a Poet it doth intend.
That little diff'rence 'twixt the Gods and us,
(By them confirm'd) distinguish'd onely thus:
Whom they, in Birth, ordaine to happy dayes,
The Gods commit their glory to our prayse;
T'eternall Life when they dissolve their breath,
We likewise share a second Pow'r by Death.
My Verse againe shall guild and make them gay,
And tricke them up in knotted Curles anew,
And to thy Autumne give a Summers hiew;
That sacred Pow'r that in my Inke remaines,
Shall put fresh Bloud into thy wither'd Veines,
And on thy Red decay'd, thy Whitenesse dead,
Shall set a White, more White, a Red, more Red:
When thy dimme Sight thy Glasse cannot descry,
Nor thy craz'd Mirrour can discerne thine Eye;
My Verse, to tell th'one what the other was,
Shall represent them both, thine Eye and Glasse:
What once thou saw'st in that, that saw in thee;
And to them both shall tell the simple truth,
What that in purenesse was, what thou in youth.
As famous Athens, now a Fisher-Towne;
My Lines for thee a Florence shall erect,
Which great Apollo ever shall protect,
And with the Numbers from my Penne that falls,
Bring Marble Mines, to re-erect those Walls.
Of the Beautie of that Lady, he himselfe testifies, in an Elegie which he writ of her, refusing to dance with him, which he seemeth to allegorize under a Lion and a Wolfe. And of himselfe he saith:
A Lion saw I late, as white as any Snow.And of her,
A fairer Beast, of fresher hue, beheld I never none,
But that her Lookes were coy, and froward was her Grace.
To be the glory of the English Court,
Shall by our Nation be so much admir'd,
If ever Surrey truely were inspir'd.
Sir Thomas Wyat the elder, a most excellent Poet, as his Poems extant doe witnesse; besides certaine Encomions, written by the Earle of Surrey, upon some of Davids Psalmes, by him translated:
To Wyats Psalmes shall Christians purchase then?
And afterward, upon his Death, the said Earle writeth thus:
Honour that England, such a Jewell bred,
And kisse the Ground whereas thy Corps did rest.
To that inchanting Thracian Harpers strings,
To whom Phœbus (the Poets God) did drinke
A Bowle of Nectar, fill'd up to the Brinke;
And sweet-tongu'd Bryan (whom the Muses kept,
And in his Cradle rockt him whilst he slept)
In sacred Verses (most divinely pen'd)
Upon thy prayses ever shall attend.
And made the cause of my Arrivall knowne,
Great Medices a List (for Triumphs) built;
Within the which, upon a Tree of Gilt,
(Which was with sundry rare Devices set)
I did erect thy lovely Counterfet,
To answere those Italian Dames desire,
Which dayly came thy Beautie to admire:
By which, my Lion, in his gaping Jawes
Held up my Lance, and in his dreadfull Pawes
Reacheth my Gauntlet unto him that dare
A Beautie with my Geraldines compare.
Which, when each Manly valiant Arme assayes,
After so many brave triumphant dayes,
The glorious Prize upon my Lance I bare,
By Heralds voyce proclaym'd to be thy share;
With fierce encounters past at ev'ry shocke,
When stormie Courses answer'd Cuffe for Cuffe,
Denting proud Bevers with the Counter-buffe,
Upon an Altar, burnt with holy Flame,
I sacrific'd, as Incense to thy Fame:
Where, as the Phœnix from her spiced fume
Renues her selfe, in that she doth consume;
So from these sacred Ashes live we both,
Ev'n as that one Arabian Wonder doth.
Burnt with the Sparkes that kindled all this fire,
Thinking of England, which my Hope containes,
The happie Ile where Geraldine remaines;
Of Hunsdon, where those sweet celestiall Eyne
At first did pierce this tender Brest of mine;
That he injoyed the presence of his faire and vertuous Mistres in those two places, by reason of Queene Katherines usuall aboad there (on whom this Lady Geraldine was attending) I prove by these Verses of his:
Windsor (alas) doth chase me from her sight.
And in another Sonnet following:
My Hand, my Chin, to ease my restlesse Head.
And that his Delight might draw him to compare Windsor to Paradise, an Elegie may prove; where he remembreth his passed Pleasures in that place.
In greater Feasts then Priams sonne of Troy.
And againe in the same Elegie:
With Eyes cast up unto the Maidens Tower,
With easie sighes, such as Men draw in love.
And againe in the same:
The Dances short, long Tales of sweet Delight.
And for the pleasantnesse of the place, these Verses of his may testifie, in the same Elegie before recited:
With silver drops the Meads yet spred for ruth.
All pleasures that in Paradise were found;
Neere that faire Castle is a little Grove,
With hanging Rocks all cover'd from above,
Which on the Banke of goodly Thames doth stand,
Clipt by the Water from the other Land,
Whose bushie Top doth bid the Sunne forbeare,
And checks his proud Beames, that would enter there;
Whose Leaves still mutt'ring, as the Ayre doth breathe,
With the sweet bubbling of the Streame beneath,
Doth rocke the Senses (whilst the small Birds sing)
Lulled asleepe with gentle murmuring;
Where light-foot Fayries sport at Prison-Base,
(No doubt there is some Pow'r frequents the place)
There the soft Poplar and smooth Beech doe beare
Our Names together carved ev'ry where,
And Gordian Knots doe curiously entwine
The Names of Henry and of Geraldine.
O, let this Grove in happy times to come,
Be call'd, The Lovers bless'd Elizium;
Whither my Mistres wonted to resort,
In Summers heat, in those sweet shades to sport:
And call'd it, Wonder-hider, Cover-Heaven,
The Roofe where Beautie her rich Court doth keepe,
Under whose compasse all the Starres doe sleepe.
There is one Tree, which now I call to minde,
Doth beare these Verses carved in his Rinde:
When Geraldine shall sit in thy faire shade,
Fanne her sweet Tresses with perfumed Aire,
Let thy large Boughes a Canopie be made,
To keepe the Sunne from gazing on my Faire;
And when thy spreading branched Armes be sunke,
And thou no Sap nor Pith shalt more retaine,
Ev'n from the dust of thy unweldie Trunke,
I will renue thee Phœnix-like againe,
And from thy dry decayed Root will bring
A new-borne Stem, another Æsons Spring.
My Countrey should give place to Lumbardy;
I had thought, in this place, not to have spoken of Thames, being so oft remembred by me before, in sundry other places, on this occasion: but thinking of that excellent Epigram, which, as I judge, eyther to be done by the said Earle, or Sir Francis Brian; for the worthinesse thereof, I will here insert: which, as it seemes to me, was compyled at the Authors being in Spaine.
Turn'st up the graines of Gold, alreadie try'de,
For I with Spur and Sayle goe seeke the Thames,
Against the Sunne that shewes his wealthie pride,
And to the Towne that Brutus sought by Dreames,
Like bended Moone, that leanes her lustie side,
To seeke my Countrey now, for whom I live,
O mightie Jove, for this the Windes me give.
As beautifie the Bankes of wanton Po;
As many Nymphs as haunt rich Arnus strand,
By silver Severne tripping hand in hand:
Our shade's as sweet, though not to us so deere,
Because the Sunne hath greater power there:
This distant place doth give me greater woe;
Farre off, my Sighes the farther have to goe.
Ah absence! why thus should'st thou seeme so long?
Or wherefore should'st thou offer Time such wrong,
Summer so soone to steale on Winters Cold,
Or Winters Blasts so soone make Summer old?
Love did us both with one-selfe Arrow strike,
Our Wound's both one, our Cure should be the like;
Except thou hast found out some meane by Art,
Some pow'rfull Med'cine to withdraw the dart;
But mine is fixt, and absence being proved,
It stickes too fast, it cannot be removed.
By my next Letters Geraldine shall know,
From Venice by some messenger expect;
Till when, I leave thee to thy hearts desire,
By him that lives thy vertues to admire.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |