 | The Works of Michael Drayton |  |
478
TO THE HONOURABLE KNIGHT, SIR WALTER ASTON.
For the shrill Trumpet, and sterne Tragick sounds,Objects out-ragious and so full of feare;
Our Pen late steep'd in English Barons wounds,
Sent War-like accents to your tunefull Eare.
Our active Muse, to gentler Morals dight;
Her slight conceits, in humbled tunes doth sing;
And with the Bird, regardlesse of the light,
Slowly doth move her late high-mounting wing.
The Wreathe is Ivie that ingirts our browes,
Wherein this Nights-Bird harb'reth all the day:
We dare not look at other crowning Boughes,
But leave the Lawrell unto them that may.
Low as the earth, though our Invention move:
High yet as Heaven, to you, our spotlesse love.
M. Drayton.
| The Works of Michael Drayton | |