And who (in time) knows whither we may vent
The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores
This gain of our best glory shall be sent,
T'enrich unknowing nations with our stores?
What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident,
May come refin'd with th' accents that are ours?
Or who can tell for what great work in hand
The greatness of our style is now ordain'd?
What pow'rs it shall bring in, what spir'ts command?
What thoughts let out; what humours keep re-
strain'd?
What mischief it may pow'rfully withstand;
And what fair ends may thereby be attain'd?
And as for Po'sy, (mother of this force!)
That breeds, brings forth, and nourishes this might;
Teaching it in a loose, yet measur'd course,
With comely motions how to go upright;
And fost'ring it with bountiful discourse,
Adorns it thus in fashions of delight.
What should I say? Since it is well approv'd
The speech of Heav'n, with whom they have com-
merce;
That only seem out of themselves remov'd,
And do with more than human skills converse:
Those numbers wherewith Heav'n and Earth are
mov'd,
Show weakness speaks in prose, but pow'r in verse.
Wherein thou likewise seemest to allow,
That th' acts of worthy men should be preserv'd,
As in the holiest tombs we can bestow
Upon their glory that have well deserv'd;
Wherein thou dost no other virtue show,
Than what most barb'rous countries have observ'd:
When all the happiest nations hitherto,
Did with no lesser glory speak, than do.
Now to what else thy malice shall object,
For schools, and arts, and their necessity;
When from my lord, whose judgment must direct
And form and fashion my ability,
I shall have got more strength; thou shalt expect,
Out of my better leisure, my reply.
TO THE ANGEL SPIRIT OF THE
MOST EXCELLENT SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
To thee, pure spir't, to thee alone address'd
Is this joint-work, by double int'rest thine:
Thine by thine own, and what is done of mine
Inspir'd by thee, thy secret pow'r impress'd.
My Muse with thine itself dar'd to combine,
As mortal staff with that which is divine:
Let thy fair beams give lustre to the rest.
That Israel's king may deign his own transform'd
In substance no, but superficial tire;
And English guis'd in some sort may aspire,
To better grace thee what the vulgar form'd.
His sacred tones age after age admire;
Nations grow great in pride and pure desire,
So to excel in holy rites perform'd.
O had that soul, which honour brought to rest
Too soon, not left, and reft the world of all
What man could show which we perfection call!
This precious piece had sorted with the best.
But, ah! wide-fester'd wounds (that never shall,
Nor must be clos'd) unto fresh bleeding fall.
Ah, Memory! what needs this new arrist?
Yet blessed grief that sweetness can impart,
Since thou art bless'd — wrongly do I complain;
Whatever weights my heavy thoughts sustain,
Dear feels my soul for thee- I know my part.
Nor be my weakness to thy rites a stain;
Rites to aright, life, blood, would not refrain.
Assist me then, that life what thine did part.
Time may bring forth what time hath yet suppress'd,
In whom thy loss hath laid to utter waste
The wreck of time, untimely all defac'd,
Remaining as the tomb of life deceas'd:
Where in my heart the highest room thou hast:
There, truly there, thy earthly being is plac'd:
Triumph of death! - In life how more than bless'd!
Behold (O that thou were now to behold!)
This finish'd long perfection's part begun ;
The test but piec'd, as left by thee undone.
Pardon, bless'd soul, presumption over bold:
If love and zeal hath to this errour run,
'Tis zealous love; love that hath never done,
Nor can enough, though justly here controll'd.
But since it hath no other scope to go,
Nor other purpose but to honour thee;
That thine may shine, where all the graces be:
And that my thoughts (like smallest streams that
Pay to their sea their tributary fee)
[flow,
Do strive, yet have no means to quit nor free
That mighty debt of infinites I owe.
To thy great worth, which time to times enroll, Wonder of men! sole born! soul of thy kind! Complete in all—but heav'nly was thy mind, For wisdom, goodness, sweetness, fairest soul! Too good to wish; too fair for earth; refin'd For Heav'n, where all true glory rests confin'd: And where but there no life without control?
O, when from this account, this cast-up sum,
This reck'ning made the audit of my woe!
Some time of race my swelling passions know;
How work my thoughts! my sense is stricken dumb,
That would thee more than words could ever show;
Which all fall short. Who knew thee best to know,
There lives no wit that may thy prayer become:
And rest fair monuments of thy fair fame,
Though not complete. Nor can we reach in thought,
What on that goodly piece Time would have wrought:
Had divers so spar'd that life (but life) to frame
The rest alas, such loss! The world hath nought
Can equal it- nor (O) more grievance brought!
Yet what remains must ever crown thy name.
Receive these hymns; these obsequies receive; (If any mark of thy secret spirit thou bear) Made only thine, and no name else must wear. I can no more, dear soul; I take my leave: My sorrow strives to mount the highest sphere.
TO THE RIGHT REVEREND FATHER IN GOD,
JAMES MONTAGUE,
LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER; DEAN OF THE CHAPEL,
AND ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE
ALTHOUGH you have, out of your proper store,
The best munition that may fortify
A noble heart; as no man may have more,
Against the batteries of mortality:
Yet, rev'rend lord, vouchsafe me leave to bring
One weapon more unto your furnishment,
That you th' assaults of this close vanquishing,
And secret wasting sickness may prevent:
For that myself have struggled with it too,
And know the worst of all that it can do.
And let me tell you this, you never could
Have found a gentler warring enemy,
And one that with more fair proceeding would
Encounter you without extremity;
Nor give more time to make resistances,
And to repair your breaches, than will this.
For whereas other sicknesses surprise
Our spir'ts at unawares, disweap'ning suddenly
All sense of understanding in such wise,
As that they lay us dead before we die,
Or fire us out of our inflamed fort,
With raving phrensies in a fearful sort:
This comes and steals us by degrees away;
And yet not that without cur privity.
They rap us hence, as vultures do their prey,
Confounding us with tortures instantly.
This fairly kills, they foully murther us,
Trip up our heels before we can discern.
This gives us time of treaty, to discuss
Our suff'ring, and the cause thereof to learn.
Besides, therewith we oftentimes have truce For many months; sometimes for many years; And are permitted to enjoy the use Of study: and although our body wears,
Our wit remains; our speech, our memory
Fail not, or come before ourselves to die.
We part together, and we take our leave
Of friends, of kindred; we dispose our state,
And yield up fairly what we did receive,
And all our bus'nesses accommodate.
So that we cannot say we were thrust out,
But we depart from hence in quiet sort;
The foe with whom we have the battle fought,
Hath not subdued us, but got our fort.
And this disease is held most incident
To the best natures, and most innocent.
And therefore, rev'rend lord, there cannot be
A gentler passage than there is hereby
Unto that port, wherein we shall be free
From all the storms of worldly misery.
And though it show us daily in our glass,
Our fading leaf turn'd to a yellow hue;
And how it withers as the sap doth pass,
And what we may expect is to ensue.
Yet that I know disquiets not your mind, Who knows the brittle metal of mankind; And have all comforts virtue can beget, And most the conscience of well-acted days: Which all those monuments which you have set On holy ground, to your perpetual praise, (As things best set) must ever testify And show the worth of noble Montague: And so long as the walls of piety
Stand, so long shall stand the memory of you.
And Bath, and Wells, and Winchester shall show
Their fair repairs to all posterity;
And how much bless'd and fortunate they were,
That ever-gracious hand did plant you there.
Besides, you have not only built up walls,
But also (worthier edifices) men;
By whom you shall have the memorials,
And everlasting honour of the pen.
That whensoever you shall come to make
Your exit from this scene, wherein you have
Perform'd so noble parts; you then shall take
Your leave with honour, have a glorious grave!
"For when can men go better to their rest,
Than when they are esteem'd and loved best?”
THE family from which this poet sprung derived their name from a town in Leicestershire; but his parents having removed into Warwickshire, he was born at Harshul in that county, and in the parish of Atherston, about the year 1563. Very little is known of his life, scarcely, indeed, any thing more than that in boyhood he was placed as page with some honourable person; that he studied at Oxford; that early in life, Sir Henry Goodere, of Polesworth in Warwickshire, was his patron; and that in his latter days, Sir Walter Aston, of Tixall in Staffordshire, loved his company, and liberally befriended him. He is one of the poets to whom the title of laureate was given in that age, not as holding the office, but as a mark of honour to which they were entitled. His contemporaries bear witness to the virtuous and honourable tenour of his life, and his works contain abundant proofs of erudition and genius.
He died in 1631, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. The Countess of Dorset is said to have erected his monument, as she did those of Spenser and Daniel; and his epitaph has been variously ascribed to Ben Jonson and to Quarles; it is more in | Jonson's manner.
Do, pious marble, let thy readers know
What they and what their children owe
To Drayton's name, whose sacred dust
We recommend unto thy trust.
Protect his memory, and preserve his story;
Remain a lasting monument of his glory.
And when thy ruins shall disclaim
To be the treasurer of his name,
His name, that cannot fade, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee.
Drayton took for himself a most fantastic coat of arms; Pegasus rampant in a shield azure gutty d'eau from Helicon, with the cap of Mercury for crest, amid sunbeams proper.
"At midnight the appointed hour,
And for the queen a fitting bow'r,"
Quoth he," is that fair cowslip flow'r,
On Hipcut-hill that groweth:
In all your train there's not a fay,
That ever went to gather May,
But she hath made it in her way,
The tallest there that groweth."
When by Tom Thum a fairy page He sent it, and doth him engage, By promise of a mighty wage,
It secretly to carry :
Which done, the queen her maids doth call,
And bids them to be ready all,
She would go see her summer hall,
She could no longer tarry.
Her chariot ready strait is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stay'd,
For naught must her be letting :
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of gossamere,
Fly Cranion, her charioteer,
Upon the coach-box getting.
Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colours did excell;
The fair queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning:
The seat the soft wool of the bee,
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a py'd butterflee,
I trow, 'twas simple trimming,
The wheels compos'd of crickets bones,
And daintily made for the nonce,
For fear of rattling on the stones,
With thistle-down they shod it :
For all her maidens much did fear,
If Oberon had chanc'd to hear,
That Mab his queen should have been there,
He would not have abode it.
She mounts her chariot with a trice,
Nor would she stay for no advice,
Until her maids, that were so nice,
To wait on her were fitted,
But ran herself away alone;
Which when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone,
As she had been diswitted.
Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear, Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were To Mab their sovereign dear,
Her special maids of honour; Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin, Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, The train that wait upon her.
Upon a grashopper they got,
And what with amble and with trot,
For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
But after her they hie them.
A cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the wind if it should blow,
Themselves they wisely could bestow,
Lest any should espy them.
But let us leave queen Mab a while, Through many a gate, o'er many a stile, That now had gotten by this wile,
Her dear Pigwiggen kissing; And tell how Oberon doth fare, Who grew as mad as any hare,
When he had sought each place with care, And found his queen was missing.
By griesly Pluto he doth swear,
He rent his clothes, and tore his hair,
And as he runneth here and there,
An acron-cup he getteth;
Which soon he taketh by the stalk,
About his head he lets it walk,
Nor doth he any creature baulk,
But lays on all he meeteth.
The Tuscan poet doth advance
The frantic Paladine of France,
And those more ancient do inhance
Alcides in his fury,
And others Ajax Telamon:
But to this time there hath been none
So bedlam as our Oberon,
Of which I dare assure ye.
And first encount'ring with a wasp,
He in his arms the fly doth clasp,
As tho' his breath he forth would grasp,
Him for Pigwiggen taking:
"Where is my wife, thou rogue?" (quoth he)
"Pigwiggen, she is come to thee;
Restore her, or thou dy'st by me.'
Whereat the poor wasp quaking,
Cries, "Oberon, great fairy king,
Content thee, I am no such thing;
I am a wasp, behold my sting!"
At which the fairy started.
When soon away the wasp doth go,
Poor wretch was never frighted so,
He thought his wings were much too slow,
O'erjoy'd they so were parted.
He next upon a glow-worm light,
(You must suppose it now was night)
Which, for her hinder part was bright,
He took to be a devil;
And furiously doth her assail
For carrying fier in her tail;
He thrash'd her rough coat with his flail,
The mad king fear'd no evil.
"Oh!" (quoth the glow-worm) "hold thy hand,
Thou puissant king of Fairy-land,
Thy mighty strokes who may withstand?
Hold, or of life despair I."
Together then herself doth roll,
And tumbling down into a hole,
She seem'd as black as any coal,
Which vext away the fairy.
From thence he ran into a hive,
Amongst the bees he letteth drive,
And down their combs begins to rive,
All likely to have spoiled:
Which with their wax his face besmear'd,
And with their honey daub'd his beard;
It would have made a man affear'd,
To see how he was moiled.
A new adventure him betides.
He met an ant, which he bestrides,
And post thereon away he rides,
Which with his haste doth stumble,
And came full over on her snout,
Her heels so threw the dirt about,
For she by no means could get out,
But over him doth tumble.
And being in this piteous case, And all beslurried head and face, On runs he in this wildgoose chase,
As here and there he rambles, Half blind, against a mole-hill hit, And for a mountain taking it, For all he was out of his wit,
Yet to the top he scrambles.
And being gotten to the top,
Yet there himself he could not stop, But down on th' other side doth chop, And to the foot came rumbling:
So that the grubs therein that bred,
Hearing such turmoil over head,
Thought surely they had all been dead,
So fearful was the jumbling.
And falling down into a lake,
Which him up to the neck doth take,
His fury it doth somewhat slake,
He calleth for a ferry:
Where you may some recovery note,
What was his club he made his boat,
And in his oaken cup doth float,
As safe as in a wherry.
Men talk of the adventures strange
Of Don Quishot, and of their change,
Through which he armed oft did range,
Of Sancha Pancha's travel:
But should a man tell every thing
Done by this frantic fairy king,
And them in lofty numbers sing,
It well his wits might gravel.
Scarce set on shore, but therewithal
He meeteth Puck, which most men call
Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall
With words from phrenzy spoken:
"Hoh, hoh," quoth Hob, " God save thy grace,
Who drest thee in this piteous case?
He thus that spoil'd my sov'reign's face,
I would his neck were broken."
This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt,
Still walking like a ragged colt,
And oft out of a bush doth bolt,
Of purpose to deceive us;
And leading us, makes us to stray
Long winter nights out of the way,
And when we stick in mire and clay,
He doth with laughter leave us.
"Dear Puck," quoth he, " my wife is gone ;
As ere thou lov'st king Oberon,
Let every thing but this alone,
With vengeance and pursue her :
Bring her to me, alive or dead;
Or that vile thief Pigwiggen's head;
That villain hath defil'd my bed,
He to this folly drew her,"
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