MICHAEL DRAYTON

I PRAY thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite— Was ever man thus servèd? Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starvèd? Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branchèd, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanchèd; O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell! By me thou art prevented: ’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented. Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life’s comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me! But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!

SINCE there’s no help, come let us kiss and part— Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, —Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover.

NEAR to the silver Trent Sirena dwelleth; She to whom Nature lent All that excelleth; By which the Muses late And the neat Graces Have for their greater state Taken their places; Twisting an anadem Wherewith to crown her, As it belong’d to them Most to renown her. On thy bank, In a rank, Let thy swans sing her, And with their music Along let them bring her. Tagus and Pactolus Are to thee debtor, Nor for their gold to us Are they the better: Henceforth of all the rest Be thou the River Which, as the daintiest, Puts them down ever. For as my precious one O’er thee doth travel, She to pearl paragon Turneth thy gravel. On thy bank ... Our mournful Philomel, That rarest tuner, Henceforth in Aperil Shall wake the sooner, And to her shall complain From the thick cover, Redoubling every strain Over and over: For when my Love too long Her chamber keepeth, As though it suffer’d wrong, The Morning weepeth. On thy bank ... Oft have I seen the Sun, To do her honour, Fix himself at his noon To look upon her; And hath gilt every grove, Every hill near her, With his flames from above Striving to cheer her: And when she from his sight Hath herself turnèd, He, as it had been night, In clouds hath mournèd. On thy bank ... The verdant meads are seen, When she doth view them, In fresh and gallant green Straight to renew them; And every little grass Broad itself spreadeth, Proud that this bonny lass Upon it treadeth: Nor flower is so sweet In this large cincture, But it upon her feet Leaveth some tincture. On thy bank ... The fishes in the flood, When she doth angle, For the hook strive a-good Them to entangle; And leaping on the land, From the clear water, Their scales upon the sand Lavishly scatter; Therewith to pave the mould Whereon she passes, So herself to behold As in her glasses. On thy bank ... When she looks out by night, The stars stand gazing, Like comets to our sight Fearfully blazing; As wond’ring at her eyes With their much brightness, Which so amaze the skies, Dimming their lightness. The raging tempests are calm When she speaketh, Such most delightsome balm From her lips breaketh. On thy bank ... In all our Brittany There’s not a fairer, Nor can you fit any Should you compare her. Angels her eyelids keep, All hearts surprising; Which look whilst she doth sleep Like the sun’s rising: She alone of her kind Knoweth true measure, And her unmatchèd mind Is heaven’s treasure. On thy bank ... Fair Dove and Darwen clear, Boast ye your beauties, To Trent your mistress here Yet pay your duties: My Love was higher born Tow’rds the full fountains, Yet she doth moorland scorn And the Peak mountains; Nor would she none should dream Where she abideth, Humble as is the stream Which by her slideth. On thy bank ... Yet my poor rustic Muse Nothing can move her, Nor the means I can use, Though her true lover: Many a long winter’s night Have I waked for her, Yet this my piteous plight Nothing can stir her. All thy sands, silver Trent, Down to the Humber, The sighs that I have spent Never can number. On thy bank, In a rank, Let thy swans sing her, And with their music Along let them bring her.

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, Furnish’d in warlike sort, Marcheth tow’rds Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopp’d his way, Where the French gen’ral lay With all his power. Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide Unto him 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 raisèd. ‘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 Lopp’d the French lilies.’ The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped Among his henchmen. Excester 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 the 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 bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went— Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword 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. Gloster, 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?

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. Britons, you stay too long: Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretch’d 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 fruitfull’st 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 whom the Golden Age Still nature’s laws doth give, No other cares attend, But them to defend From winter’s rage, 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, Frighting 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.