Part 25
Give her th' Eoan Brightness! Winged with that subtle lightness That doth transpierce the air; The Roses of the Morning! The rising heaven adorning, To mesh with flames of hair;
Those ceaseless Sounds, above all, Made by those orbs that move all; And ever swelling there: Wrapped up in Numbers flowing, Them actually bestowing For jewels at her ear.
O rapture great and holy, Do thou transport me wholly So well her form to vary! That I aloft may bear her Where as I will insphere her In regions high and starry.
And in my choice Composures, The soft and easy Closures So amorously shall meet, That every lively Ceasure Shall tread a perfect measure, Set on so equal feet.
That spray to fame so fert'le, The lover-crowning myrtle, In wreaths of mixèd boughs; Within whose shades are dwelling Those beauties most excelling, Enthroned upon her brows.
Those parallels so even, Drawn on the face of heaven, That curious Art supposes; Direct those gems, whose clearness Far off amaze by nearness, Each globe such fire encloses.
Her bosom full of blisses, By Nature made for kisses; So pure and wondrous clear: Where as a thousand Graces Behold their lovely faces, As they are bathing there.
O thou self-little Blindness! The kindness of unkindness, Yet one of those Divine: Thy Brands to me were lever, Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver, And thou this Quill of mine.
This heart so freshly bleeding, Upon its own self feeding; Whose wounds still dropping be: O Love, thyself confounding, Her coldness so abounding, And yet such heat in me.
Yet, if I be inspirèd, I'll leave thee so admirèd To all that shall succeed; That were they more than many, 'Mongst all there is not any That Time so oft shall read.
Nor adamant ingravèd, That hath been choicely savèd, IDEA'S name outwears: So large a dower as this is; The greatest often misses, The diadem that bears.
ODE 3.
[_TO CUPID._]
Maidens, why spare ye? Or whether not dare ye Correct the blind Shooter?' "Because wanton VENUS, So oft that doth pain us, Is her son's tutor.
"Now in the Spring, He proveth his wing; The field is his Bower: And as the small bee, About flyeth he, From flower to flower.
"And wantonly roves Abroad in the groves, And in the air hovers; Which when it him deweth, His feathers he meweth In sighs of true Lovers.
"And since doomed by Fate (That well knew his hate) That he should be blind; For very despite, Our eyes be his White: So wayward his kind!
"If his shafts losing (Ill his mark choosing) Or his bow broken; The moan VENUS maketh, And care that she taketh, Cannot be spoken.
"To VULCAN commending Her love; and straight sending Her doves and her sparrows, With kisses, unto him: And all but to woo him To make her son arrows.
"Telling what he hath done; Saith she,'Right mine own son!' In her arms she him closes. Sweets on him fans, Laid in down of her swans; His sheets, leaves of roses.
"And feeds him with kisses; Which oft when he misses, He ever is froward. The mother's o'erjoying Makes, by much coying, The child so untoward."
_Yet in a fine net, That a spider set, The Maidens had caught him. Had she not been near him, And chancèd to hear him; More good they had taught him!_
_To my worthy friend Master JOHN SAVAGE of the Inner Temple._
ODE 4.
Upon this sinful earth, If Man can happy be, And higher than his birth, Friend, take him thus of me:
Whom promise not deceives, That he the breach should rue; Nor constant reason leaves Opinion to pursue.
To raise his mean estate, That soothes no Wanton's sin: Doth that preferment hate, That virtue doth not win
Nor bravery doth admire: Nor doth more love profess To that he doth desire, Than that he doth possess.
Loose humour nor to please, That neither spares nor spends; But by discretion weighs What is to needful ends.
To him deserving not, Not yielding: nor doth hold What is not his: doing what He ought, not what he could.
Whom the base tyrants' will So much could never awe As him, for good or ill, From honesty to draw.
Whose constancy doth rise 'Bove undeservèd spite; Whose valuers to despise That most doth him delight.
That early leave doth take Of th' World, though to his pain, For Virtue's only sake; And not till need constrain.
No man can be so free, Though in imperial seat; Nor eminent: as he That deemeth nothing great.
ODE 5.
[_An Amouret Anacreontic._]
Most good! most fair! Or thing as rare! To call you's lost; For all the cost Words can bestow So poorly show Upon your praise, That all the ways Sense hath, come short. Whereby Report Falls them under: That when Wonder More hath seized; Yet not pleased That it, in kind, Nothing can find, You to express. Nevertheless As by globes small This mighty ALL Is shewed, though far From life; each star A World being: So we seeing You, like as that, Only trust what Art doth us teach. And when I reach At Moral Things, And that my strings Gravely should strike; Straight some mislike Blotteth mine Ode; As, with the Load, The Steel we touch: Forced ne'er so much; Yet still removes To that it loves, Till there it stays. So to your praise I turn ever: And though never From you moving; Happy so loving.
ODE 6.
[_Love's Conquest._]
Wer 't granted me to choose, How I would end my days, Since I this life must lose; It should be in your praise: For there are no Bays Can be set above You.
S'impossibly I love You; And for You sit so high (Whence none may remove You) In my clear Poesy, That I oft deny You so ample merit.
The freedom of my spirit Maintaining, still, my cause; Your sex not to inherit, Urging the Salic Laws: But your virtue draws From me every due.
Thus still You me pursue, That nowhere I can dwell; By fear made just to You, Who naturally rebel; Of You that excel That should I still endite.
Yet will You want some rite. That lost in your high praise, I wander to and fro; As seeing sundry ways: Yet which the right not know To get out of this Maze.
ODE 7.
[_An Ode written in the Peak._]
This while we are abroad, Shall we not touch our Lyre? Shall we not sing an Ode? Shall that holy fire, In us that strongly glowed, In this cold air expire?
Long since the Summer laid Her lusty bravery down; The Autumn half is weighed, And BOREAS 'gins to frown: Since now I did behold Great BRUTE'S first builded town.
Though in the utmost Peak, A while we do remain; Amongst the mountains bleak, Exposed to sleet and rain: No sport our hours shall break, To exercise our vein.
What though bright PHŒBUS' beams Refresh the southern ground; And though the princely Thames With beauteous Nymphs abound; And by old Camber's streams Be many wonders found:
Yet many rivers clear Here glide in silver swathes; And what of all most dear, Buxton's delicious baths, Strong ale, and noble cheer, T'assuage breem Winter's scathes.
Those grim and horrid caves, Whose looks affright the day; Wherein nice Nature saves What she would not bewray: Our better leisure craves, And doth invite our Lay.
In places far, or near, Or famous, or obscure; Where wholesome is the air, Or where the most impure; All times, and everywhere, The Muse is still in ure.
ODE 8.
Sing we the Rose! Than which no flower there grows Is sweeter; And aptly her compare With what in that is rare: A parallel none meeter.
Or made posies, Of this that encloses Such blisses: That naturally flusheth, As she blusheth When she is robbed of kisses.
Or if strewed, When with the morning dewed; Or stilling; Or how to sense exposed: All which in her enclosed, Each place with sweetness filling.
That most renowned By Nature richly crowned With yellow; Of that delicious lair: And as pure her hair, Unto the same the fellow.
Fearing of harm; Nature that flower doth arm From danger: The touch gives her offence, But with reverence Unto herself, a stranger.
The red, or white, Or mixed, the sense delight, Beholding, In her complexion: All which perfection, Such harmony infolding,
That divided, Ere it was decided Which most pure, Began the grievous War Of YORK and LANCASTER, That did many years endure.
Conflicts as great As were in all that heat, I sustain: By her, as many hearts As men on either parts, That with her eyes hath slain.
The Primrose flower, The first of FLORA'S bower Is placed: So is She first, as best: Though excellent the rest; All gracing, by none graced.
ODE 9.
[_A Skeltoniad._]
The Muse should be sprightly; Yet not handling lightly Things grave: as much loath Things that be slight, to cloathe Curiously. To retain The Comeliness in mean Is true Knowledge and Wit. Nor me forced rage doth fit, That I thereto should lack Tobacco, or need Sack; Which to the colder brain Is the true Hippocrene. Nor did I ever care For Great Fools, nor them spare. Virtue, though neglected, Is not so dejected As vilely to descend To low baseness, their end: Neither each rhyming slave Deserves the name to have Of Poet. So, the rabble Of Fools, for the table, That have their jests by heart, As an Actor his part, Might assume them chairs Amongst the Muses' heirs. Parnassus is not clomb By every such Mome: Up whose steep side who swerves, It behoves t'have strong nerves. My resolution such How _well_, and not how _much_, To write. Thus do I fare Like some few good, that care (The evil sort among) How _well_ to live, and not how _long_.
ODE 10.
[_His Defence against the idle Critic._]
The Ryme nor mars, nor makes; Nor addeth it, nor takes, From that which we propose: Things imaginary Do so strangely vary That quickly we them lose.
And what's quickly begot, As soon again is not; This do I truly know. Yea, and what's born with pain; That, Sense doth long'st retain, Gone with a greater flow.
Yet this Critic so stern, (But whom, none must discern Nor perfectly have seeing) Strangely lays about him, As nothing without him Were worthy of being,
That I myself betray To that most public way; Where the World's old bawd Custom, that doth humour, And by idle rumour, Her dotages applaud.
That whilst she still prefers Those that be wholly hers, Madness and Ignorance; I creep behind the Time, From spertling with their crime; And glad too with my chance.
O wretched World the while, When the evil most vile Beareth the fairest face; And inconstant lightness, With a scornful slightness, The best things doth disgrace!
Whilst this strange knowing beast, Man; of himself the least, His envy declaring, Makes Virtue to descend, Her title to defend Against him; much preparing.
Yet these me not delude, Nor from my place extrude, By their resolvèd hate; Their vileness that do know: Which to myself I show, To keep above my fate.
ODE 11.
_To the Virginian Voyage._
You brave heroic minds, Worthy your country's name, That Honour still pursue; Go and subdue! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame.
Britans, you stay too long; Quickly aboard bestow you! And with a merry gale Swell your stretched sail! With vows as strong As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer, West-and-by-South forth keep! Rocks, Lee-shores, nor Shoals, When EOLUS scowls, You need not fear! So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea, Success you still entice, To get the pearl and gold; And ours to hold, Virginia, Earth's only Paradise.
Where Nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish: And the fruitful soil; Without your toil, Three harvests more, All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine Crowns, with his purple mass, The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky. The cypress, pine, And useful sassafras.
To whose, the Golden Age Still Nature's laws doth give: No other cares that tend, But them to defend From winter's age, That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land, Above the seas that flows, The clear wind throws, Your hearts to swell, Approaching the dear strand.
In kenning of the shore (Thanks to GOD first given!) O you, the happiest men, Be frolic then! Let cannons roar! Frightening the wide heaven.
And in regions far, Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom We came! And plant our name Under that Star Not known unto our North!
And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere, APOLLO'S sacred tree; You it may see A Poet's brows To crown, that may sing there.
Thy _Voyages_ attend, Industrious HAKLUYT! Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame; And much commend To after Times thy wit.
ODE 12.
_To the Cambro-Britans and their Harp, his Ballad of Agincourt._
[Besides this Ballad: MICHAEL DRAYTON published, in 1627, a much longer Poem upon this celebrated Battle.]
Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance; Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry. But putting to the main; At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King HARRY.
And taking many a fort Furnished in warlike sort, Marcheth towards Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing, day by day, With those that stopped his way, Where the French General lay With all his Power.
Which, in his height of pride, King HENRY to deride; His ransom to provide, To the King sending. Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile; Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending.
And turning to his men, Quoth our brave HENRY then: "Though they to one be ten Be not amazèd! Yet have we well begun: Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By Fame been raised!"
"And for myself," quoth he, "This my full rest shall be: England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me! Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain: Never shall She sustain Loss to redeem me!
"Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell. No less our skill is, Than when our Grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lillies."
The Duke of YORK so dread The eager Vanward led; With the Main, HENRY sped Amongst his henchmen: EXETER had the Rear, A braver man not there! O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone; Armour on armour shone; Drum now to drum did groan: To hear, was wonder. That, with cries they make, The very earth did shake; Trumpet, to trumpet spake; Thunder, to thunder.
Well it thine age became, O noble ERPINGHAM! Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces: When, from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English Archery Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong; Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather. None from his fellow starts; But, playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw; And forth their bilbowes [_swords_] drew And on the French they flew: Not one was tardy. Arms were from the shoulders sent Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went: Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to o'erwhelm it. And many a deep wound lent; His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruisèd his helmet.
GLOUCESTER that Duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother. CLARENCE, in steel so bright, Though but a Maiden Knight; Yet in that furious fight, Scarce such another!
WARWICK, in blood did wade; OXFORD, the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up. SUFFOLK his axe did ply; BEAUMONT and WILLOUGHBY Bare them right doughtily: FERRERS, and FANHOPE.
Upon Saint CRISPIN'S Day, Fought was this noble Fray; Which Fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again Such a King HARRY?
FINIS.
PREFACE TO THE ADDITIONAL ODES OF 1619.
_To the worthy Knight, and my noble friend, Sir HENRY GOODERE, a Gentleman of His Majesty's Privy Chamber._
These Lyric pieces, short, and few, Most worthy Sir, I send to you; To read them be not weary! They may become JOHN HEWES his lyre, Which oft, at Polesworth,[12] by the fire, Hath made us gravely merry.
Believe it, he must have the trick Of Ryming, with Invention quick, That should do Lyrics well: But how I have done in this kind, Though in myself I cannot find, Your judgment best can tell.
Th' old British Bards (upon their harps For falling Flats, and rising Sharps, That curiously were strung) To stir their Youth to warlike rage, Or their wild fury to assuage, In these loose Numbers sung.
No more I, for fools' censure pass, Than for the braying of an ass; Nor once mine ear will lend them: If you but please to take in gree These _Odes_, sufficient 'tis to me: Your liking can commend them.
Yours,
MICHAEL DRAYTON.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 12: In Warwickshire.]
WITH OTHER LYRIC POESIES.
_To his Valentine._
Muse, bid the Morn awake! Sad Winter now declines, Each bird doth choose a Make; This day's Saint VALENTINE'S. For that good Bishop's sake Get up, and let us see What Beauty it shall be That Fortune us assigns!
But, lo, in happy hour, The place wherein she lies; In yonder climbing Tower, Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise. O, JOVE, that in a shower (As once that Thunderer did, When he in drops lay hid) That I could her surprise!
Her canopy I'll draw, With spangled plumes bedight: No mortal ever saw So ravishing a sight; That it the Gods might awe, And pow'rfully transpierce The globy Universe, Outshooting every light.
My lips I'll softly lay Upon her heavenly cheek, Dyed like the dawning day, As polished ivory sleek; And in her ear I'll say: "O thou bright Morning Star! 'Tis I, that come so far, My Valentine to seek.
"Each little bird, this tide, Doth choose her lovèd pheere; Which constantly abide In wedlock all the year, As Nature is their guide; So may we Two be true This year, nor change for new; As turtles coupled were.
"The sparrow, swan, the dove, Though VENUS' birds they be; Yet are they not for love, So absolute as we! For reason us doth move; But they by billing woo. Then try what we can do! To whom each sense is free.
"Which we have more than they, By livelier organs swayed; Our Appetite each way More by our Sense obeyed. Our Passions to display, This season us doth fit; Then let us follow it, As Nature us doth lead!
"One kiss in two let's breathe! Confounded with the touch, But half words let us speak! Our lips employed so much, Until we both grow weak: With sweetness of thy breath, O smother me to death! Long let our joys be such!
"Let's laugh at them that choose Their Valentines by lot; To wear their names that use, Whom idly they have got." Saint VALENTINE, befriend! We thus this Morn may spend: Else, Muse, awake her not!
_The Heart._
If thus we needs must go; What shall our one Heart do, This One made of our Two?
Madam, two Hearts we brake; And from them both did take The best, one Heart to make.
Half this is of your Heart, Mine in the other part; Joined by an equal Art.
Were it cemented, or sewn; By shreds or pieces known, We might each find our own.
But 'tis dissolved and fixed; And with such cunning mixed, No diff'rence that betwixt.
But how shall we agree, By whom it kept shall be: Whether by you or me?
It cannot two breasts fill; One must be heart-less still, Until the other will.
It came to me to-day: When I willed it to say, With Whether would it stay?
It told me, "In your breast, Where it might hope to rest: For if it were my guest,
"For certainty, it knew That I would still anew Be sending it to you!"
Never, I think, had two Such work, so much, to do: A Unity to woo!
Yours was so cold and chaste: Whilst mine with zeal did waste; Like Fire with Water placed.
How did my Heart intreat! How pant! How did it beat, Till it could give yours heat!
Till to that temper brought, Through our perfection wrought, That blessing either's thought.
In such a height it lies From this base World's dull eyes; That Heaven it not envies.
All that this Earth can show. Our Heart shall not once know! For it's too vile and low.
_The Sacrifice to APOLLO._
Priests of APOLLO, sacred be the room For this learned meeting! Let no barbarous groom, How brave soe'er he be, Attempt to enter! But of the Muses free, None here may venture! This for the Delphian Prophets is prepared: The profane Vulgar are from hence debarred!
And since the Feast so happily begins; Call up those fair Nine, with their violins! They are begot by JOVE. Then let us place them Where no clown in may shove, That may disgrace them: But let them near to young APOLLO sit; So shall his foot-pace overflow with wit.