Chapter 1

E-text prepared by David Starner, Melissa Er-Raqabi, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)

ELIZABETHAN SONNET-CYCLES

Edited by

MARTHA FOOTE CROW

Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner and Co. Paternoster House London W.C.

1897

IDEA by MICHAEL DRAYTON

FIDESSA by BARTHOLOMEW GRIFFIN

CHLORIS by WILLIAM SMITH

IDEA by MICHAEL DRAYTON

The true story of the life of Michael Drayton might be told to vindicate the poetic traditions of the olden time. A child-poet wandering in fay-haunted Arden, or listening to the harper that frequented the fireside of Polesworth Hall where the boy was a petted page, later the honoured almoner of the bounty of many patrons, one who "not unworthily," as Tofte said, "beareth the name of the chiefest archangel, singing after this soule-ravishing manner," yet leaving but "five pounds lying by him at his death, which was _satis viatici ad coelum_"--is not this the panorama of a poetic career? But above all, to complete the picture of the ideal poet, he worshipped, and hopelessly, from youth to age the image of one, woman. He never married, and while many patronesses were honoured with his poetic addresses, there was one fair dame to whom he never offered dedicatory sonnet, a silence that is full of meaning. Yet the praises of Idea, his poetic name for the lady of his admiration and love, are written all over the pages of his voluminous lyrical and chorographical and historical poems, and her very name is quaintly revealed to us. Anne Goodere was the younger daughter in the noble family where Drayton was bred and educated; and one may picture the fair child standing "gravely merry" by the little page to listen to "John Hews his lyre," at that ancestral fireside. "Where I love, I love for years," said Drayton in 1621. As late as 1627, but four years before his death, he writes an elegy of his lady's not coming to London, in which he complains that he has been starved for her short letters and has had to read last year's over again. About the same time he is writing that immortal sonnet, the sixty-first, the one that Rossetti, with perhaps something too much of partiality, has declared to be almost, if not quite, the best in the language. The tragedy of a whole life is concentrated in that sonnet, and the heart-pang in it is unmistakable. But Drayton had stood as witness to the will of Anne's father, by which £1500 was set down for her marriage portion. She was an heiress, he a penniless poet, and what was to be done?

About 1590, when Drayton was twenty-eight, and Anne was probably twenty-one years old, Drayton left Polesworth Hall and came to London. Perhaps the very parting was the means of revealing his heart to himself, for it is from near this time that, as he confesses later, he dates the first consciousness of his love. He soon publishes _Idea, the Shepherd's Garland, Rowland's Sacrifice to the Nine Muses_, where we first see our poet, in his pastoral-poetic character, carving his "rime of love's idolatry," upon a beechen tree. Thirteen stanzas of these pastoral eclogues do not exhaust the catalogue of her beauties; and when he praises the proportion of her shape and carriage, we know that it was not the poet's frenzied eye alone that saw these graces, for Dr. John Hall, of Stratford, who attended her professionally, records in his case-book that she was "beautiful and of gallant structure of body." Anne was married about 1595 to Sir Henry Rainsford, who became Drayton's friend, host and patron. It is likely that Lady Rainsford deserved a goodly portion of the praises bestowed upon her beauty. And she need not have been ashamed of the devotion of her knight of poesy; for Michael Drayton was, like Constable and Daniel and Fletcher, a man good and true, and the chorus of contemporaries that praise his character and his verse is led by pious Meres himself, and echoed by Jonson.

_Idea's Mirrour, Amours in Quatorzains_, formed the title under which the sonnet-cycle appeared in 1594. _Idea_ was reprinted eight times before 1637, the edition of 1619 being the chief and serving for the foundation of our text. Many changes and additions were made by the author in the successive editions; in fact only twenty of the fifty-one "amours" in _Idea's Mirrour_ escaped the winnowing, while the famous sixty-first appears for the first time in 1619. There is a distinct progress manifest in the subdual of language and form to artistic finish, and while the cycle in its unevenness represents the early and late stages of poetic progress, the more delicate examples of his work show him worthy of the praise bestowed by his latest admirer and critic,

"Faith, Michael Drayton bears the bell For numbers airy."

It will be noted that, while many rhyme-arrangements are experimented upon, the Shakespearean or quatrain-and-couplet form predominates. In the less praiseworthy sonnets he is found to lack grammatical clamping and to allow frequent faults in rhythm, and he toys with the glittering and soulless conceit as much as any; but where his individuality has fullest sway, as in the picturesque Arden memory of the fifty-third, the personal reminiscences of the Ankor sonnets, and the vivid theatre theme of the forty-seventh, in what Main calls that "magical realisation of the spirit of evening" in the thirty-seventh, and above all in the naïve and passionate sixty-first, there is a rude strength that pierces beneath the formalities and touches and moves the heart. Drayton, like Sidney and Daniel and Shakespeare, draws freely upon the general thought-storehouse of the Italianate sonneteers: time and the transitoriness of beauty, the lover's extremes, the Platonic ideas of soul-functions and of love-madness, the phoenix and Icarus and all the classic gods, engage his fancy first or last; and no sonnet trifler has been more attracted by the great theme of immortality in verse than he. When honouring Idea in the favourite mode he cries

"Queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise."

A late writer holds that years have falsified this prophecy. It is true that Lamb valued Drayton chiefly as the panegyrist of his native earth, and we would hardly venture to predict the future of our sonneteer; but the fact remains that now three hundred years after his time, his lifelong devotion to the prototype of Idea constitutes, as he conventionally asserted it would, his most valid claim to interest, and that the sonnets where this love has found most potent expression mount the nearest to the true note of immortality.

TO THE READER OF THESE SONNETS

Into these loves who but for passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by, And seek elsewhere in turning other books, Which better may his labour satisfy. 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 drest, A libertine fantasticly I sing. My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change; To choice of all variety inclined, And in all humours sportively I range. My muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain.

IDEA

I

Like an adventurous sea-farer am I, Who hath some long and dang'rous voyage been, And called to tell of his discovery, How far he sailed, what countries he had seen, Proceeding from the port whence he put forth, Shows by his compass how his course he steered, When east, when west, when south, and when by north, As how the pole to every place was reared, What capes he doubled, of what continent, The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past, Where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent, And on what rocks in peril to be cast: Thus in my love, time calls me to relate My tedious travels and oft-varying fate.

II

My heart was slain, and none but you and I; Who should I think the murder should commit? Since but yourself there was no creature by But only I, guiltless of murdering it. It slew itself; the verdict on the view Do quit the dead, and me not accessary. Well, well, I fear it will be proved by you, The evidence so great a proof doth carry. But O see, see, we need inquire no further! Upon your lips the scarlet drops are found, And in your eye the boy that did the murder, Your cheeks yet pale since first he gave the wound! By this I see, however things be past, Yet heaven will still have murder out at last.

III

Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe, Duly to count the sum of all my cares, I find my griefs innumerable grow, The reck'nings rise to millions of despairs. And thus dividing of my fatal hours, The payments of my love I read and cross; Subtracting, set my sweets unto my sours, My joys' arrearage leads me to my loss. And thus mine eyes a debtor to thine eye, Which by extortion gaineth all their looks, My heart hath paid such grievous usury, That all their wealth lies in thy beauty's books. And all is thine which hath been due to me, And I a bankrupt, quite undone by thee.

IV

Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces, The goddesses 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 blessèd 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!

V

Nothing but "No!" and "I!"[A] and "I!" and "No!" "How falls it out so strangely?" you reply. I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answered so, With this affirming "No!" denying "I!" I say "I love!" You slightly answer "I!" I say "You love!" You pule me out a "No!" I say "I die!" You echo me with "I!" "Save me!" I cry; you sigh me out a "No!" Must woe and I have naught but "No!" and "I!"? No "I!" am I, if I no more can have. Answer no more; with silence make reply, And let me take myself what I do crave; Let "No!" and "I!" with I and you be so, Then answer "No!" and "I!" and "I!" and "No!"

[Footnote A: The "I" of course equals "aye."]

VI

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 sex's only glory. So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song.

VII

Love, in a humour, played the prodigal, And bade my senses to a solemn feast; Yet more to grace the company withal, Invites my heart to be the chiefest guest. No other drink would serve this glutton's turn, But precious tears distilling from mine eyne, Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, Quaffing carouses in this costly wine; Where, in his cups, o'ercome with foul excess, Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part, And at the banquet in his drunkenness, Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest heart. A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see, What 'tis to keep a drunkard company!

VIII

There's nothing grieves me but that age should haste, That in my days I may not see thee old; That where those two clear sparkling eyes are placed, Only two loopholes that I might behold; That lovely archèd ivory-polished brow Defaced with wrinkles, that I might but see; Thy dainty hair, so curled and crispèd now, Like grizzled moss upon some agèd tree; Thy cheek now flush with roses, sunk and lean; Thy lips, with age as any wafer thin! Thy pearly teeth out of thy head so clean, That when thou feed'st thy nose shall touch thy chin! These lines that now thou scornst, which should delight thee, Then would I make thee read but to despite thee.

IX

As other men, so I myself do muse Why in this sort I wrest invention so, And why these giddy metaphors I use, Leaving the path the greater part do go. I will resolve you. I'm a lunatic; And ever this in madmen you shall find, What they last thought of when the brain grew sick, In most distraction they keep that in mind. Thus talking idly in this bedlam fit, Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain; 'Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit. Bear with me then though troubled be my brain. With diet and correction men distraught, Not too far past, may to their wits be brought.

X

To nothing fitter can I thee compare Than to the son of some rich penny-father, Who having now brought on his end with care, Leaves to his son all he had heaped together. This new rich novice, lavish of his chest, To one man gives, doth on another spend; Then here he riots; yet amongst the rest, Haps to lend some to one true honest friend. Thy gifts thou in obscurity dost waste: False friends, thy kindness born but to deceive thee; Thy love that is on the unworthy placed; Time hath thy beauty which with age will leave thee. Only that little which to me was lent, I give thee back when all the rest is spent.

XI

You're not alone when you are still alone; O God! from you that I could private be! Since you one were, I never since was one; Since you in me, myself since out of me. Transported from myself into your being, Though either distant, present yet to either; Senseless with too much joy, each other seeing; And only absent when we are together. Give me my self, and take your self again! Devise some means but how I may forsake you! So much is mine that doth with you remain, That taking what is mine, with me I take you. You do bewitch me! O that I could fly From my self you, or from your own self I!

TO THE SOUL

XII

That learned Father which so firmly proves The soul of man immortal and divine, And doth the several offices define _Anima._ Gives her that name, as she the body moves. _Amor._ Then is she love, embracing charity. _Animus._ Moving a will in us, it is the mind; _Mens._ Retaining knowledge, still the same in kind. _Memoria._ As intellectual, it is memory. _Ratio._ In judging, reason only is her name. _Sensus._ In speedy apprehension, it is sense. _Conscientia._ In right and wrong they call her conscience; _Spiritus._ The spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame: These of the soul the several functions be, Which my heart lightened by thy love doth see.

TO THE SHADOW

XIII

Letters and lines we see are soon defaced Metals do waste and fret with canker's rust, The diamond shall once consume to dust, And freshest colours with foul stains disgraced; Paper and ink can paint but naked words, To write with blood of force offends the sight; And if with tears, I find them all too light, And sighs and signs a silly hope affords. O sweetest shadow, how thou serv'st my turn! Which still shalt be as long as there is sun, Nor whilst the world is never shall be done; Whilst moon shall shine or any fire shall burn, That everything whence shadow doth proceed, May in his shadow my love's story read.

XIV

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 lifeless clods us living men to make He did bestow in temper of the mind. But you broke into heaven's immortal store, Where virtue, honour, wit, and beauty lay; Which taking thence, you have escaped away, Yet stand as free as e'er you did before. Yet old Prometheus punished for his rape; Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater 'scape.

HIS REMEDY FOR LOVE

XV

Since to obtain thee nothing me will stead, I have a med'cine that shall cure my love. The powder of her heart dried, when she's dead, That gold nor honour ne'er had power to move; Mixed with her tears that ne'er her true love crost, Nor at fifteen ne'er longed to be a bride; Boiled with her sighs, in giving up the ghost, That for her late deceasèd husband died; Into the same then let a woman breathe, That being chid did never word reply; With one thrice married's prayers, that did bequeath A legacy to stale virginity. If this receipt have not the power to win me, Little I'll say, but think the devil's in me!

AN ALLUSION TO THE PHOENIX

XVI

'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round Of the birds' kind, the phoenix is alone, Which best by you of living things is known; None like to that, none like to you is found! Your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun; The precious spices be your chaste desire, Which being kindled by that heavenly fire, Your life, so like the phoenix's begun. Yourself thus burnèd in that sacred flame, With so rare sweetness all the heavens perfuming; Again increasing as you are consuming, Only by dying born the very same. And winged by fame you to the stars ascend; So you of time shall live beyond the end.

TO TIME

XVII

Stay, speedy time! Behold, before thou pass From age to age, what thou hast sought to see, One in whom all the excellencies be, In whom heaven looks itself as in a glass. Time, look thou too in this translucent glass, And thy youth past in this pure mirror see! As the world's beauty in his infancy, What it was then, and thou before it was. Pass on and to posterity tell this-- Yet see thou tell but truly what hath been. Say to our nephews that thou once hast seen In perfect human shape all heavenly bliss; And bid them mourn, nay more, despair with thee, That she is gone, her like again to see.

TO THE CELESTIAL NUMBERS

XVIII

To this our world, to learning, and to heaven, Three nines there are, to every one a nine; One number of the earth, the other both divine; One woman now makes three odd numbers even. Nine orders first of angels be in heaven; Nine muses do with learning still frequent: These with the gods are ever resident. Nine worthy women to the world were given. My worthy one to these nine worthies addeth; And my fair Muse, one Muse unto the nine. And my good angel, in my soul divine!-- With one more order these nine orders gladdeth. My Muse, my worthy, and my angel then Makes every one of these three nines a ten.

TO HUMOUR

XIX

You cannot love, my pretty heart, and why? There was a time you told me that you would, But how again you will the same deny. If it might please you, would to God you could! What, will you hate? Nay, that you will not neither; Nor love, nor hate! How then? What will you do? What, will you keep a mean then betwixt either? Or will you love me, and yet hate me too? Yet serves not this! What next, what other shift? You will, and will not; what a coil is here! I see your craft, now I perceive your drift, And all this while I was mistaken there. Your love and hate is this, I now do prove you: You love in hate, by hate to make me love you.

XX

An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possessed! Which ceaseth not to tempt 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.

XXI

A witless gallant a young wench that wooed-- Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move-- Intreated me as e'er I wished his good, To write him but one sonnet to his love. When I as fast as e'er my pen could trot, Poured out what first from quick invention came, Nor never stood one word thereof to blot; Much like his wit that was to use the same. But with my verses he his mistress won, Who doated on the dolt beyond all measure. But see, for you to heaven for phrase I run, And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure! Yet by my troth, this fool his love obtains, And I lose you for all my wit and pains!

TO FOLLY

XXII

With fools and children good discretion bears; Then, honest people, bear with love and me, Nor older yet nor wiser made by years, Amongst the rest of fools and children be. Love, still a baby, plays with gauds and toys, And like a wanton sports with every feather, And idiots still are running after boys; Then fools and children fitt'st to go together. He still as young as when he first was born, Nor wiser I than when as young as he; You that behold us, laugh us not to scorn; Give nature thanks you are not such as we! Yet fools and children sometimes tell in play; Some wise in show, more fools indeed than they.

XXIII

Love, banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn, Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a goddess born, Yet craved the alms of such as passèd by. I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothèd the naked, lodged this wandering guest; With sighs and tears still furnishing his table With what might make the miserable blest. But this ungrateful for my good desert, Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart, And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold.

XXIV

I hear some say, "This man is not in love!" "Who! can he love? a likely thing!" they say. "Read but his verse, and it will easily prove!" O, judge not rashly, gentle Sir, I pray! Because I loosely trifle in this sort, As one that fain his sorrows would beguile, You now suppose me all this time in sport, And please yourself with this conceit the while. Ye shallow cens'rers! sometimes, see ye not, In greatest perils some men pleasant be, Where fame by death is only to be got, They resolute! So stands the case with me. Where other men in depth of passion cry, I laugh at fortune, as in jest to die.

XXV