Michael Drayton

Couentry, that do'st adorne[1] The Countrey wherein I was borne, Yet therein lyes not thy prayse

The Muse should be sprightly, Yet not handling lightly Things graue; as much loath,

A briefe Prologue to the verses following. Deare Tom, thy booke was like to come to light, Ere I could gaine but one halfe howre to write;

Reade heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo, The drery abstracts of my endles cares, With my liues sorow enterlyned so;

Oft taking pen in hand, with words to cast my woes, Beginning to account the sum of all my cares, I well perceiue my griefe innumerable growes,

Thine eyes taught mee the Alphabet of loue, To con my Cros-rowe ere I learn'd to spell; For I was apt, a scholler like to proue,

Some Atheist or vile Infidell in loue, When I doe speake of thy diuinitie, May blaspheme thus, and say I flatter thee,

Cleere Ankor, on whose siluer-sanded shore My soule-shrinde Saint, my faire Idea, lyes; O blessed Brooke! whose milk-white Swans adore

Looking into the glasse of my youths miseries, I see the ugly face of my deformed cares, With withered browes, all wrinckled with dispaires,

Now, Loue, if thou wilt proue a Conqueror, Subdue thys Tyrant euer martyring mee; And but appoint me for her Tormentor,

Vertues Idea in virginitie, By inspiration, came conceau'd with thought: The time is come deliuered she must be,

If euer wonder could report a wonder, Or tongue of wonder worth could tell a wonder thought, Or euer ioy expresse what perfect ioy hath taught,

Some, when in ryme they of their Loues doe tell, With flames and lightning their exordiums paynt: Some inuocate the Gods, some spirits of Hell,

If those ten Regions, registred by Fame, By theyr ten Sibils haue the world controld, Who prophecied of Christ or ere he came,

My fayre, if thou wilt register my loue, More then worlds volumes shall thereof arise; Preserue my teares, and thou thy selfe shall proue

Reading sometyme, my sorrowes to beguile, I find old Poets hylls and floods admire: One, he doth wonder monster-breeding Nyle,

Letters and lynes, we see, are soone defaced, Mettles doe waste and fret with cankers rust; The Diamond shall once consume to dust,

My hart, imprisoned in a hopeless Ile, Peopled with Armies of pale iealous eyes, The shores beset with thousand secret spyes,

Wonder of Heauen, glasse of diuinitie, Rare beautie, Natures joy, perfections Mother, The worke of that vnited Trinitie,

Our floods-Queene, Thames, for shyps and Swans is crowned, And stately Seuerne for her shores is praised, The christall Trent for Foords and fishe renowned,

The glorious sunne went blushing to his bed, When my soules sunne, from her fayre Cabynet, Her golden beames had now discouered,

Cupid, dumbe-Idoll, peeuish Saint of loue, No more shalt thou nor Saint nor Idoll be; No God art thou, a Goddesse shee doth proue,

My Loue makes hote the fire whose heat is spent, The water moisture from my teares deriueth, And my strong sighes the ayres weake force reuiueth:

Some wits there be which lyke my method well, And say my verse runnes in a lofty vayne; Some say, I haue a passing pleasing straine,

O eyes! behold your happy Hesperus, That luckie Load-starre of eternall light, Left as that sunne alone to comfort vs,

My thoughts bred vp with Eagle-birds of loue, And, for their vertues I desiered to know, Vpon the nest I set them forth, to proue

Three sorts of serpents doe resemble thee; That daungerous eye-killing Cockatrice, Th' inchaunting Syren, which doth so entice,

Sitting alone, loue bids me goe and write; Reason plucks backe, commaunding me to stay, Boasting that shee doth still direct the way,

Those teares, which quench my hope, still kindle my desire, Those sighes, which coole my hart, are coles vnto my loue, Disdayne, Ice to my life, is to my soule a fire:

Whilst thus mine eyes doe surfet with delight, My wofull hart, imprisond in my breast, Wishing to be trans-formd into my sight,

My fayre, looke from those turrets of thine eyes, Into the Ocean of a troubled minde, Where my poor soule, the Barke of sorrow, lyes,

See, chaste Diana, where my harmles hart, Rouz'd from my breast, his sure and safest layre, Nor chaste by hound, nor forc'd by Hunters arte,

Sweete, sleepe so arm'd with Beauties arrowes darting, Sleepe in thy Beauty, Beauty in sleepe appeareth; Sleepe lightning Beauty, Beauty sleepes, darknes cleereth,

I euer loue where neuer hope appeares, Yet hope drawes on my neuer-hoping care, And my liues hope would die but for dyspaire;

If chaste and pure deuotion of my youth, Or glorie of my Aprill-springing yeeres, Vnfained loue in naked simple truth,

Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy, If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue; If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,

My faire, had I not erst adorned my Lute With those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre, Vnto the world had all my ioyes been mute,

O thou vnkindest fayre! most fayrest shee, In thine eyes tryumph murthering my poore hart, Now doe I sweare by heauens, before we part,

Rare of-spring of my thoughts, my dearest Loue, Begot by fancy on sweet hope exhortiue, In whom all purenes with perfection stroue,

Plac'd in the forlorne hope of all dispayre Against the Forte where Beauties Army lies, Assayld with death, yet armed with gastly feare,

Why doe I speake of ioy, or write of loue, When my hart is the very Den of horror, And in my soule the paynes of hell I proue,

My hart the Anuile where my thoughts doe beate, My words the hammers fashioning my desire, My breast the forge, including all the heate,

Blacke pytchy Night, companyon of my woe, The Inne of care, the Nurse of drery sorrow, Why lengthnest thou thy darkest howres so,

Sweete secrecie, what tongue can tell thy worth? What mortall pen sufficiently can prayse thee? What curious Pensill serues to lim thee forth?

The golden Sunne vpon his fiery wheeles The horned Ram doth in his course awake, And of iust length our night and day doth make,

Who list to praise the dayes delicious lyght, Let him compare it to her heauenly eye, The sun-beames to the lustre of her sight;

Define my loue, and tell the ioyes of heauen, Expresse my woes, and shew the paynes of hell; Declare what fate vnlucky starres haue giuen,

Since holy Vestall lawes haue been neglected, The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite; No Virgin once attending on that light,

When I first ended, then I first began; The more I trauell, further from my rest; Where most I lost, there most of all I wan;

Goe you, my lynes, Embassadours of loue, With my harts tribute to her conquering eyes, From whence, if you one tear of pitty moue

In one whole world is but one Phoenix found, A Phoenix thou, this Phoenix then alone: By thy rare plume thy kind is easly knowne,

Stay, stay, sweet Time; behold, or ere thou passe From world to world, thou long hast sought to see, That wonder now wherein all wonders be,

Vnto the World, to Learning, and to Heauen, Three nines there are, to euerie one a nine; One number of the earth, the other both diuine,

Beauty sometime, in all her glory crowned, Passing by that cleere fountain of thine eye, Her sun-shine face there chaunsing to espy,

Most good, most faire, Or Thing as rare, To call you's lost;

Must I needes write, who's hee that can refuse, He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse, The thought of her doth heau'nly rage inspire,

This while we are abroad, Shall we not touch our Lyre? Shall we not sing an ODE?

Douer, to doe thee Right, who will not striue, That dost in these dull yron Times reuiue The golden Ages glories; which poore Wee

O thou fayre siluer Thames: O cleerest chrystall flood, Beta alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood, The Queene of Virgins onely she:

Then this great Vniuerse no lesse, Can serue her prayses to expresse: Betwixt her eies the poles of Loue,

Tell me fayre flocke, (if so you can conceaue) The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse, If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine, And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base, And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,

Rowland. Of her pure eyes (that now is seen) Chorus.    Help vs to sing that be her faithful swains Row:        O she alone the shepheards Queen,

BATTE. Gorbo, as thou cam'st this waye By yonder little hill,

Farre in the countrey of Arden There wond a knight hight Cassemen, as bolde as Isenbras:

Borrill. Oh spightfull wayward wretched loue, Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,

Now fye vpon thee wayward loue, Woe to Venus which did nurse thee, Heauen and earth thy plagues doe proue,

Faire Loue rest thee heere, Neuer yet was morne so cleere, Sweete be not vnkinde,

Such was old Orpheus cunning, That sencelesse things drew neere him, And heards of beasts to heare him,

The Ryme nor marres, nor makes, Nor addeth it, nor takes, From that which we propose;

Wer't granted me to choose, How I would end my dayes; Since I this life must loose,

Olde CHAVCER doth of Topas tell, Mad RABLAIS of Pantagruell, A latter third of Dowsabell,

Singe wee the Rose Then which no flower there growes Is sweeter:

That ten-yeares-trauell'd Greeke return'd from Sea Ne'r ioyd so much to see his Ithaca, As I should you, who are alone to me,

If in opinion of iudiciall wit, Primaleons sweet Invention well deserue: Then he (no lesse) which hath translated it,

Chapman; We finde by thy past-prized fraught, What wealth thou dost vpon this Land conferre; Th'olde Grecian Prophets hither that hast brought,

Like as a man, on some aduenture bound His honest friendes, their kindnes to expresse, T'incourage him of whome the maine is own'd;

Such men as hold intelligence with Letters, And in that nice and Narrow way of Verse, As oft they lend, so oft they must be Debters,

In new attire (and put most neatly on) Thou Murray mak'st thy passionate Queene apeare, As when she sat on the Numidian throne,

Driue forth thy Flocke, young Pastor, to that Plaine, Where our old Shepheards wont their flocks to feed; To those cleare walkes, where many a skilfull Swaine

The worlds faire Rose, and Henries frosty fire, Iohns tyrannie; and chast Matilda's wrong, Th'inraged Queene, and furious Mortimer,

Loue in an humor played the prodigall, And bids my sences to a solemne feast, Yet more to grace the company withall,

Ph'be looke downe, and here behold in mee, The elements within thy sphere inclosed, How kindly Nature plac'd them vnder thee,

To nothing fitter can I thee compare, Then to the sonne of some rich penyfather, Who hauing now brought on his end with care,

You not alone, when you are still alone, O God from you that I could priuate be, Since you one were, I neuer since was one,

That learned Father which so firmly proues The soule of man immortall and diuine, And doth the seuerall offices define,

Into these loues who but for passion lookes, At this first sight, here let him lay them by, And seeke elsewhere in turning other bookes,

You cannot loue my pretty hart, and why? There was a time, you told me that you would, But now againe you will the same deny,

An euill spirit your beauty haunts me still, Where-with (alas) I haue been long possest, Which ceaseth not to tempt me vnto ill,

Thou which do'st guide this little world of loue, Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold, My brow the spheare where Saturne still doth moue,

Love banish'd heauen, in earth was held in scorne, Wandring abroad in neede and beggery, And wanting friends though of a Goddesse borne,

O why should nature nigardly restraine, The Sotherne Nations relish not our tongue, Else should my lines glide on the waues of Rhene,

I gaue my faith to Loue, Loue his to mee, That hee and I, sworne brothers should remaine, Thus fayth receiu'd, fayth giuen back againe,

When conquering loue did first my hart assaile, Vnto mine ayde I summond euery sence, Doubting if that proude tyrant should preuaile,

Many there be excelling in this kind, Whose well trick'd rimes with all inuention swell, Let each commend as best shall like his minde,

Those Priests, which first the Vestall fire begun, Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame, Deuisd a vessell to receiue the sunne,

Me thinks I see some crooked Mimick ieere And taxe my Muse with this fantastick grace, Turning my papers, asks what haue we heere?

Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire, Rauish'd a world beyond the farthest thought, That knowing more then euer hath beene taught,

Whilst thus my pen striues to eternize thee, Age rules my lines with wrincles in my face, Where in the Map of all my misery,

Muses which sadly sit about my chayre, Drownd in the teares extorted by my lines, With heauy sighs whilst thus I breake the ayre,

Thou leaden braine, which censur'st what I write, And say'st my lines be dull and doe not moue, I meruaile not thou feelst not my delight,

My hart was slaine, and none but you and I, Who should I thinke the murder should commit? Since but your selfe, there was no creature by

Truce gentle loue, a parly now I craue, Me thinks, 'tis long since first these wars begun, Nor thou nor I, the better yet can haue:

Eyes with your teares, blind if you bee, Why haue these teares such eyes to see, Poore eyes, if yours teares cannot moue,

Great Lady, essence of my chiefest good, Of the most pure and finest tempred spirit, Adorn'd with gifts, enobled by thy blood,

Madam, my words cannot expresse my mind, My zealous kindnes to make knowne to you, When your desarts all seuerally I find;

Nothing but no and I, and I and no, How falls it out so strangely you reply? I tell yee (Faire) Ile not be aunswered so,

Loue once would daunce within my Mistres eye, And wanting musique fitting for the place, Swore that I should the Instrument supply,

The Gods delight, the heauens hie spectacle, Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle. Fortunes fay'rst mistresse, vertues surest guide,

Like an aduenturous Sea-farer am I, Who hath some long and dang'rous Voyage beene, And call'd to tell of his Discouerie,

As other men, so I my selfe doe muse, Why in this sort I wrest Inuention so, And why these giddy metaphors I vse,

Since to obtaine thee, nothing me will sted, I haue a Med'cine that shall cure my Loue, The powder of her Heart dry'd, when she is dead,

If hee from heauen that filch'd that liuing fire, Condemn'd by Ioue to endlesse torment be, I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,

A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo'd, (Yet his dull Spirit her not one iot could moue) Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good,

With fooles and children good discretion beares, Then honest people beare with Loue and me, Nor older yet, nor wiser made by yeeres,

I heare some say, this man is not in loue, Who, can he loue? a likely thing they say: Reade but his verse, and it will easily proue;

Is not Loue here, as 'tis in other Clymes, And diff'reth it, as doe the seu'rall Nations? Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,

To such as say thy loue I ouer-prize, And doe not sticke to terme my praises folly, Against these folkes that think them selues so wise,

Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slacke To wound her Heart, whose Eyes haue wounded me, And suff'red her to glory in my Wracke,

Deare, why should you commaund me to my rest When now the night doth summon all to sleepe? Me thinks this time becommeth louers best,

Why should your faire eyes with such soueraine grace, Dispearse their raies on euery vulgar spirit, Whilst I in darknes in the selfesame place,

Plain-path'd Experience the vnlearneds guide, Her simple followers euidently shewes, Sometime what schoolemen scarcely can decide,

In pride of wit, when high desire of fame Gaue life and courage to my labouring pen, And first the sound and vertue of my name,

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'de haue thee know, A naked Starueling euer may'st thou be, Poore Rogue, goe pawne thy Fascia and thy Bow,

As in some Countries far remote from hence, The wretched creature destined to die, Hauing the iudgement due to his offence,

Calling to minde since first my loue begunne, Th' incertaine times oft varying in their course, How things still vnexpectedly haue runne,

What dost thou meane to Cheate me of my Heart, To take all Mine, and giue me none againe? Or haue thine Eyes such Magike, or that Art,

You best discern'd of my interior eies, And yet your graces outwardly diuine, Whose deare remembrance in my bosome lies,

In former times, such as had store of coyne, In warres at home, or when for conquests bound, For feare that some their treasures should purloyne,

As Loue and I, late harbour'd in one Inne, With Prouerbs thus each other intertaine; In loue there is no lacke, thus I beginne?

How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in Coaches trouble eu'ry Street, Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings,

Since there 's no helpe, Come let vs kisse and part, Nay, I haue done: You get no more of Me, And I am glad, yea glad withall my heart,

Not thy graue Counsells, nor thy Subiects loue, Nor all that famous Scottish royaltie, Or what thy soueraigne greatnes may approue,

Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit, A thousand Nimph-like and enamoured Graces, The Goddesses of memory and wit,

There's nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste, That in my dayes I may not see thee old, That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac'd,

Like an adventurous sea-farer am I, Who hath some long and dang'rous voyage been, And called to tell of his discovery,

My heart was slain, and none but you and I; Who should I think the murder should commit? Since but yourself there was no creature by

Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe, Duly to count the sum of all my cares, I find my griefs innumerable grow,

Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces, The goddesses of memory and wit,

As other men, so I myself do muse Why in this sort I wrest invention so, And why these giddy metaphors I use,

As in some countries far remote from hence, The wretched creature destin'd to die, Having the judgment due to his offence,

Calling to mind since first my love begun, Th'uncertain times, oft varying in their course, How things still unexpectedly have run,

What dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart, To take all mine and give me none again? Or have thine eyes such magic or that art

Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore, My soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea lives; O bless'd brook, whose milk-white swans adore

Yet read at last the story of my woe, The dreary abstracts of my endless cares, With my life's sorrow interlin'd so,

As Love and I late harboured in one inn, With Proverbs thus each other entertain. "In love there is no lack," thus I begin:

My fair, if thou wilt register my love, A world of volumes shall thereof arise; Preserve my tears, and thou thyself shall prove

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

You best discerned of my mind's inward eyes, And yet your graces outwardly divine, Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,

In former times, such as had store of coin, In wars at home or when for conquests bound, For fear that some their treasure should purloin,

Define my weal, and tell the joys of heaven; Express my woes and show the pains of hell; Declare what fate unlucky stars have given,

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,

When first I ended, then I first began; Then more I travelled further from my rest. Where most I lost, there most of all I won;

Truce, gentle Love, a parley now I crave, Methinks 'tis long since first these wars begun; Nor thou, nor I, the better yet can have;

Nothing but "No!" and "I!"[A] and "I!" and "No!" "How falls it out so strangely?" you reply. I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answered so,

How many paltry, foolish, painted things, That now in coaches trouble every street, Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,

Love, in a humour, played the prodigal, And bade my senses to a solemn feast; Yet more to grace the company withal,

There's nothing grieves me but that age should haste, That in my days I may not see thee old; That where those two clear sparkling eyes are placed,

To nothing fitter can I thee compare Than to the son of some rich penny-father, Who having now brought on his end with care,

You're not alone when you are still alone; O God! from you that I could private be! Since you one were, I never since was one;

That learned Father which so firmly proves The soul of man immortal and divine, And doth the several offices define

If he, from heaven that filched that living fire, Condemned by Jove to endless torment be, I greatly marvel how you still go free

You cannot love, my pretty heart, and why? There was a time you told me that you would, But how again you will the same deny.

My heart the anvil where my thoughts do beat, My words the hammers fashioning my desire, My breast the forge including all the heat,

Why do I speak of joy or write of love, When my heart is the very den of horror, And in my soul the pains of hell I prove,

Some men there be which like my method well, And much commend the strangeness of my vein; Some say I have a passing pleasing strain,

Why should your fair eyes with such sov'reign grace Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit, Whilst I in darkness in the self-same place,

Whilst thus my pen strives to eternise thee, Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face, Where in the map of all my misery

Thou leaden brain, which censur'st what I write, And sayst my lines be dull and do not move, I marvel not thou feel'st not my delight,

Muses which sadly sit about my chair, Drowned in the tears extorted by my lines; With heavy sighs whilst thus I break the air,

Plain-pathed experience, the unlearn'd's guide, Her simple followers evidently shows Sometimes what schoolmen scarcely can decide,

In pride of wit, when high desire of fame Gave life and courage to my lab'ring pen, And first the sound and virtue of my name

Cupid, I hate thee, which I'd have thee know; A naked starveling ever mayst thou be! Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow

Since to obtain thee nothing me will stead, I have a med'cine that shall cure my love. The powder of her heart dried, when she's dead,

'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round Of the birds' kind, the phoenix is alone, Which best by you of living things is known;

Stay, speedy time! Behold, before thou pass From age to age, what thou hast sought to see, One in whom all the excellencies be,

To this our world, to learning, and to heaven, Three nines there are, to every one a nine; One number of the earth, the other both divine;

An evil spirit, your beauty, haunts me still, Wherewith, alas, I have been long possessed! Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill,

A witless gallant a young wench that wooed-- Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move-- Intreated me as e'er I wished his good,

With fools and children good discretion bears; Then, honest people, bear with love and me, Nor older yet nor wiser made by years,

Love, banished heaven, in earth was held in scorn, Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a goddess born,

I hear some say, "This man is not in love!" "Who! can he love? a likely thing!" they say. "Read but his verse, and it will easily prove!"

When conquering love did first my heart assail, Unto mine aid I summoned every sense, Doubting if that proud tyrant should prevail,

O, why should nature niggardly restrain That foreign nations relish not our tongue? Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhine,

I ever love where never hope appears, Yet hope draws on my never-hoping care, And my life's hope would die but for despair;

Is not love here as 'tis in other climes, And differeth it as do the several nations? Or hath it lost the virtue with the times,

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,

Those priests which first the vestal fire begun, Which might be borrowed from no earthly flame, Devised a vessel to receive the sun,

Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer, And tax my Muse with this fantastic grace; Turning my papers asks, "What have we here?"

Our floods' queen, Thames, for ships and swans is crowned, And stately Severn for her shore is praised; The crystal Trent for fords and fish renowned,

Whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight, My woful heart imprisoned in my breast, Wisheth to be transform'd to my sight,

Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire, Ravished a world beyond the farthest thought, And knowing more than ever hath been taught,

Some, when in rhyme they of their loves do tell, With flames and lightnings their exordiums paint. Some call on heaven, some invocate on hell,

Some misbelieving and profane in love, When I do speak of miracles by thee, May say that thou art flatter'd by me,

Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack To wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me And suffered her to glory in my wrack,

Dear, why should you command me to my rest, When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best;

Sitting alone, love bids me go and write; Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay, Boasting that she doth still direct the way,

Good Folke, for Gold or Hyre, But helpe me to a Cryer; For my poore Heart is runne astray

If thus we needs must goe, What shall our one Heart doe, This One made of our Two?

The Description of Elizium A Paradice on earth is found, Though farre from vulgar sight,

What time the groues were clad in greene, The Fields drest all in flowers, And that the sleeke-hayred Nimphs were seene,

Priests of APOLLO, sacred be the Roome, For this learn'd Meeting: Let no barbarous Groome, How braue soe'r he bee,

DORILVS in sorrowes deepe, Autumne waxing olde and chill, As he sate his Flocks to keepe

Maydens, why spare ye? Or whether not dare ye Correct the blind Shooter?

And why not I, as hee That's greatest, if as free, (In sundry strains that striue,

A Canzonet I pray thee leaue, loue me no more, Call home the Heart you gaue me,

Her lou'd I most, By thee that 's lost, Though she were wonne with leasure;

Muse, bid the Morne awake, Sad Winter now declines, Each Bird doth chuse a Make,

Friend, if you thinke my Papers may supplie You, with some strange omitted Noueltie, Which others Letters yet haue left vntould,

My noble friend, you challenge me to write To you in verse, and often you recite, My promise to you, and to send you newes;

My dearely loued friend how oft haue we, In winter evenings (meaning to be free,) To some well-chosen place vs'd to retire;

Deare friend, be silent and with patience see, What this mad times Catastrophe will be; The worlds first Wisemen certainly mistooke

Vppon this sinfull earth If man can happy be, And higher then his birth,

I will not striue m' inuention to inforce, With needlesse words your eyes to entertaine, T' obserue the formall ordinarie course

Faire stood the Wind for France, When we our Sayles aduance, Nor now to proue our chance,

Vovchsafe to grace these rude vnpolish'd rymes, Which long (dear friend) haue slept in sable night, And, come abroad now in these glorious tymes,

Rich Statue, double-faced, With Marble Temples graced, To rayse thy God-head hyer,

Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine, Neither that I would haue you entertaine The time in reading me, which you would spend

Into these loves who but for passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by, And seek elsewhere in turning other books,

You braue Heroique minds, Worthy your Countries Name; That Honour still pursue,

Could there be words found to expresse my losse, There were some hope, that this my heauy crosse Might be sustained, and that wretched I

Accursed Death, what neede was there at all Of thee, or who to councell thee did call; The subiect whereupon these lines I spend

Canst thou depart and be forgotten so, STANHOPE thou canst not, no deare STANHOPE, no: But in despight of death the world shall see,

I many a time haue greatly marueil'd, why Men say, their friends depart when as they die, How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,

Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Louers flie, And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie On those three SHEFFIELDS, ouer-whelm'd with waues,