Volume Ii Part 172 (1/2)

No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast; Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring; Nor in ”Ah me's!” my whining sonnets dressed!

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 inclined, So in all humors sportively I range!

My Muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fas.h.i.+on entertain.

IV Bright Star of Beauty! on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamored Graces, The G.o.ddesses of Memory and Wit, Which there in order take their several places; In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious Love Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear, Since he that blessed paradise did prove; And leaves his mother's lap, to sport him there.

Let others strive to entertain with words!

My soul is of a braver mettle made: I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords, In me's that faith which Time cannot invade!

Let what I praise be still made good by you!

Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true!

XX An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possessed; Which ceaseth not to attempt me to each ill, Nor give 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 provoked to every evil, By this good-wicked Spirit, sweet Angel-Devil.

x.x.xVII 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 ordained together friends to keep.

How happy are all other living things, Which, through the day, disjoined by several flight, The quiet evening yet together brings, And each returns unto his Love at night!

O thou that art so courteous else to all, Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus!

That every creature to his kind doth 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!

XL My heart the Anvil where my thoughts do beat; My words the Hammers fas.h.i.+oning my Desire; My breast the Forge including all the heat, Love is the Fuel which maintains the fire.

My sighs the Bellows which the flame increaseth, Filling mine ears with noise and nightly groaning.

Toiling with pain, my labor never ceaseth; In grievous Pa.s.sions, my woes still bemoaning.

My eyes with tears against the fire striving, Whose scorching glede my heart to cinders turneth: But with those drops, the flame again reviving Still more and more it to my torment burneth.

With Sisyphus thus do I roll the stone, And turn the wheel with d.a.m.ned Ixion.

XLII How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, Ere they be well wrapped 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 lived not in these times, To have seen thee, their s.e.x's only glory: So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.

LXI 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, Pa.s.sion 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!

Michael Drayton [1563-1631]

SONNETS From ”Diana”

IX My Lady's presence makes the Roses red, Because to see her lips they blush for shame.