Sonnet XLIV: Whilst Thus My Pen
Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize thee,
Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face,
Where in the map of all my misery
Is modell'd out the world of my disgrace.
Whilst, in despite of tyrannizing times,
Medea-like, I make thee young again,
Proudly thou scorn'st my world-outwearing rhymes
And murtherest virtue with thy coy disdain.
And though in youth my youth untimely perish,
To keep thee from oblivion and the grave
Ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish,
When I entomb'd, my better part shall save;
And though this earthly body fade and die,
My name shall mount upon eternity.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet XX: An Evil Spirit
An evil spirit, your beauty haunts me still,
Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill,
Nor gives 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 provok'd to every evil
By this good wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Idea XX: An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still
An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still,
Wherewith, alas, I have been long possess'd,
Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill,
Nor gives 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 provok'd to every evil
By this good-wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Idea XXXVII: Dear, why should you command me to my rest
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 ordain'd together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things
Which, though the day disjoin by sev'ral flight,
The quiet ev'ning yet together brings,
And each returns unto his love at night!
O thou that art so courteous else to all,
Why should'st thou, Night, abuse me only thus,
That ev'ry creature to his kind dost 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.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet IX: As Other Men
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 am 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.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet XXXVII: Dear, Why Should You
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 ordain'd, together friends to keep;
How happy are all other living things
Which through the day disjoin by sev'ral flight,
The quiet ev'ning 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 ev'ry creature to his kind dost 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.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet XIV: If He From Heav'n
If he from Heav'n that filch'd that living fire
Condemn'd 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 heav'nly 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 Heav'n's immortal store,
Where Virtue, Honor, Wit, and Beauty lay,
Which taking thence you have escap'd away,
Yet stand as free as e'er you did before;
Yet old Prometheus punish'd for his rape.
Thus poor thieves suffer when the greater 'scape.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet LVI: When Like an Eaglet
When like an eaglet I first found my Love,
For that the virtue I thereof would know,
Upon the nest I set it forth to prove
If it were of that kingly kind or no;
But it no sooner say my Sun appear,
But on her rays with open eyes it stood,
To show that I had hatch'd it for the air
And rightly came from that brave mounting brood;
And, when the plumes were summ'd with sweet desire,
To prove the pinions it ascends the skies;
Do what I could, it needsly would aspire
To my Soul's Sun, those two celestial eyes.
Thus from my breast, where it was bred alone,
It after thee is, like an eaglet, flown.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet VII: Love in a Humour
Love in a humor play'd 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.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Sonnet XXVIII: To Such As Say
To such as say thy love I overprize,
And do not stick to term my praises folly,
Against these folks, that think themselves so wise,
I thus oppose my Reason's forces wholly,
Though I give more than well affords my state,
In which expense the most suppose me vain,
Which yields them nothing at the easiest rate,
Yet at this price returns me treble gain.
They value not, unskillful how to use,
And I give much, because I gain thereby;
I that thus take, or they that thus refuse,
Whether are these deceived then, or I?
In everything I hold this maxim still:
The circumstance doth make it good or ill.
poem by Michael Drayton
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