Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

A

A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo’d

An euill spirit your beautie haunts Me still

As in some Countries, farre remote from hence

As Loue and I, late harbour’d in one Inne

As other Men, so I my selfe doe Muse

B

Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eye-lids sit

C

Calling to minde since first my Loue begun

Cleere Ankor, on whose Siluer-sanded shore

Cupid, I hate thee, which I’de haue thee know

D

Deare, why should you command me to my Rest

Define my Weale, and tell the ioyes of Heauen

H

How many paltry, foolish, painted things

I

I euer loue, where neuer Hope appeares

I heare some say, this Man is not in loue

If he, from Heau’n that filch’d that liuing Fire

In former times, such as had store of Coyne

In pride of Wit, when high desire of Fame

Into these Loues, who but for Passion lookes

Is not Loue here, as ’tis in other Clymes

L

Letters and Lines we see are soone defaced

Like an aduenturous Sea-farer am I

Loue banish’d Heau’n, in Earth was held in scorne

Loue, in a Humor, play’d the Prodigall

M

Maruell not, Loue, though I thy pow’r admire

Me thinkes I see some crooked Mimicke ieere

Mongst all the Creatures in this spacious Round

Muses which sadly sit about my Chayre

My Faire, if thou wilt register my loue

My Heart the Anuile, where my Thoughts doe beate

My Heart was slaine, and none but you and I

N

Nothing but No and I, and I and No

O

O, why should Nature niggardly restraine!

Our Flouds-Queen Thames, for Ships & Swans is crowned

P

Plaine-path’d Experience, th’vnlearneds guide

S

Since ther’s no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part

Since to obtaine thee, nothing me will sted

Sitting alone, Loue bids me goe and write

Some Men there be, which like my Method well

Some misbeleeuing, and prophane in Loue

Some, when in Ryme, they of their Loues doe tell

Stay, speedy Time, behold, before thou passe

T

Taking my Penne, with Words to cast my Woe

That learned Father, which so firmely proues

There’s nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste

Those Priests which first the Vestall Fire begun

Thou Leaden Braine, which censur’st what I write

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast beene so slacke

To nothing fitter can I Thee compare

To such as say, Thy Loue I ouer-prize

To this our World, to Learning, and to Heauen

Truce, gentle Loue, a Parly now I craue

W

What? do’st thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart

When conqu’ring Loue did first my Heart assayle

When first I Ended, then I first Began

When like an Eaglet I first found my Loue

Whilst thus my Pen striues to eternize thee

Whilst yet mine Eyes doe surfet with Delight

Why doe I speake of Ioy, or write of Loue

Why should your faire Eyes with such sou’raigne grace

With Fooles and Children good Discretion beares

Y

Yet reade at last the storie of my Woe

You best discern’d of my Minds inward Eyes

You cannot loue, my prettie Heart, and why?

You not alone, when You are still alone