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Sonnet to Delia. Care-charmer Sleepe, sonne of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darknes borne, Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With darke forgetting of my care, returne. And let the day be time enough to mourne The shipwracke of my ill-adventured youth ; Let waking eyes suffice to waile their scorne, Without the torments of the night's untruth. Cease, dreames, the images of day desires, To model forth the passions of to-morrow; Never let rising Sunne approve you liers. To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleepe, imbracing clouds in vaine, And never wake to feele the dayes disdaine.

Ulisses and the Syren.

Syren. Come, worthy Greeke, Ulisses, come,
Possesse these shores with me ;

The windes and Seas are troublesome,
And heere we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toile
That travaile in the deepe,

And joy the day in mirth the while,

And spend the night in sleepe.

Ulisses. Fair Nimph, if fame or honor were

To be atteynd with ease,

Then would I come and rest with thee,
And leave such toyles as these :
But here it dwels, and here must I
With danger seeke it forth;
To spend the time luxuriously

Becomes not men of worth.
Syren. Ulisses, oh, be not deceiv'd
With that unreall name:
This honour is a thing conceiv'd,
And rests on others fame.
Begotten onely to molest

Our peace, and to beguile

(The best thing of our life) our rest,

And give us up to toil!

Ulisses. Delicious Nimph, suppose there were No honour, or report,

Yet manlines would scorne to weare

The time in idle sport:

For toyle doth give a better touche

To make us feele our joy;

And ease finds tediousnesse as much

As labour yeelds annoy.

Syren. Then pleasure likewise seemes the shore,
Whereto tends all your toyle;
Which you forgo to make it more,

And perish oft the while.

Who may disporte them diversly,

Finde never tedious day;

And ease may have varietie,

As well as action may.

Ulisses. But natures of the noblest frame
These toyles and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same,
As much as you in ease:

And with the thoughts of actions past
Are recreated still:

When pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.

Syren. That doth opinion onely cause,

That's out of custome bred;
Which makes us many other lawes
Than ever nature did.

No widdowes waile for our delights,
Our sportes are without bloud;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.

Ulisses. But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest,

And these great spirits of high desire

Seem borne to turne them best :
To purge the mischiefes that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace,
To be well chang'd for war.

Syren. Well, well, Ulisses, then I see
I shall not have thee heare;
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortunes there.
I must be wonne that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not wonne :
For beauty hath created bin,

T'undoo or be undonne.

See Dr Grosart's edition of Daniel's works in the Huth Library (3 vols. 1885-87), and H. C. Beeching's Selections from the Poetry of S. Daniel and M. Drayton (1899).

Michael Drayton, born in 1563 at Hartshill, near Atherstone in Warwickshire, at the age of ten was made page to a person of quality— possibly Sir Henry Goodere, to whom he says he owed the most of his education. There is nothing to prove whether he went to a university. His first work, The Harmonie of the Church (1591), was a metrical translation of parts of the Scriptures, but gave offence to the authorities and was destroyed. In 1593 Drayton published a collection of his pastorals or 'eglogs ;' in 1594, a collection of sonnets or 'quatorzains' (which helped to fix the specific English form of the sonnet); and in 1596, the first form of what, much altered, appeared as The Barons' Wars, originally in a seven-line stanza, finally in 'ottava rima.' It has fine passages, but is not everywhere interesting. England's Heroicall Epistles (1597), on the model of Ovid's Heroides, is polished but unequal. On the accession of James I. in 1603, Drayton acted as esquire to Sir Walter Aston at his investiture as Knight of the Bath. The poet expected patronage from the new sovereign, but was disappointed. The Poems Lyric and Heroic (1606) contain the famous martial lyric, The Ballad of Agincourt. He published the first part of his most elaborate work, the Polyolbion, in 1612, and the second in 1622, the whole forming a poetical 'chorographicall' description of England, in thirty songs or books. The Polyolbion, unlike any other work in English poetry, is full of topographical and antiquarian details, allusions to remarkable events and persons, local sports and customs; yet the inevitable prolixity and monotony of such a scheme is atoned for by the

beauty of Drayton's descriptions, the skill of his treatment, the brightness of his fancy, and the delightfulness of his melody, as well as by the multifariousness of his information-information in general so accurate that the poem is quoted as an authority by Wood and Hearne.

In 1619 Drayton collected all his poems (but Polyolbion) that he wanted preserved, and in 1627 published a new volume containing the whimsical and delightful Nymphidia, The Quest of Cynthia, and The Battaile of Agincourt (distinct from the Ballad). In conjunction with Chettle, Dekker, Munday, Webster, and others he had a share in many plays, notably Sir John Oldcastle. His last work, The Muses Elizium (1630), deals with Noah's flood, the birth of Moses, David and Goliath ; and the great sonnet, Since there's no help,' first

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

From the Portrait in the National Portrait Gallery.

published in the 1619 folio, was pronounced by Rossetti as almost the best in the language, if not quite.' On his death in 1631, Drayton was buried in Westminster Abbey.

From 'Polyolbion.'

Morning in Warwickshire-a Stag-hunt.

My native country then, which so brave spirits hast bred,
If there be vertue yet remaining in thy earth,
Or any good of thine then breathd'st into my birth,
Accept it as thine owne whilst now I sing of thee
Of all thy later brood th' unworthiest though I bee.
Muse, first of Arden tell, whose foot-steps yet are found
In her rough wood-lands more than any other ground
That mighty Arden held even in her height of pride,
Her one hand touching Trent, the other Severn's side.

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winters wave, No sooner doth the earth her flowerie bosome brave,

At such time as the Yeere brings on the pleasant Spring,
But Hunts-up to the morne the feathered sylvans sing:
And in the lower Grove, as on the rising Knoll,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole,
Those quiristers are pearcht, with many a speckled breast,
Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring east
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous Night
Bespangled had with pearle, to please the morning's
sight;
[throats,
On which the mirthful Quires, with their clere open
Unto the joyful Morne so straine their warbling notes,
That Hills and Valleys ring, and even the echoing Ayre
Seems all composed of sounds about them every where.
The Throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sung
T' awake the listless Sunne; or chyding, that so long
He was in comming forth, that should the thickets thrill;
The Woosell neere at hand, that hath a golden bill,
As Nature him had markt of purpose, t' let us see
That from all other Birds his tunes should different bee;
For, with their vocall sounds, they sing to pleasant May;
Upon his dulcet pype the Merle doth onely play.
When in the lower Brake, the Nightingale hard by,
In such lamenting straines the joyful howres doth ply,

As though the other birds shee to her tunes would draw.

And but that nature, by her all-constraining law,
Each bird to her owne kind this season doth invite,
They else, alone to heare that Charmer of the Night,
The more to use their ears their voyces sure would

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The Yellow pate; which though shee hurt the blooming
Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pype than she.
And of these chaunting fowles, the Goldfinch not behind,
That hath so many sorts descending from her kind.
The Tydie for her notes as delicate as they,
The laughing Hecco, then the counterfeiting Jay.
The softer with the shrill-some hid among the leaves,
Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves-
Thus sing away the Morne, until the mounting Sunne
Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath runne,
And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps
To kisse the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps.
And near to these our Thicks the wild and frightful Heards,
Not hearing other noyse but this of chattering Birds,
Feed fairly on the Launds; both sorts of seasoned Deere :
Here walk the stately Red, the freckled Fallow there :
The Bucks and lusty Stags, amongst the rascalls strewed,
As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude.

Of all the beasts which we for our veneriall name,
The Hart among the rest, the Hunters noblest game :
Of which most princely chase sith none did e'er report,
Or by description touch t' express that wondrous sport
(Yet might have well beseemed the ancients' nobler songs)
To our old Arden heere most fitly it belongs :
Yet shall shee not invoke the muses to her ayde,
But thee, Diana bright, a goddesse and a mayd,
In many a huge-growne Wood and many a shady Grove,
Which oft hast borne thy Bowe, great huntresse, used to

rove

At many a cruell beast, and with thy darts to pierce The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce;

And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty Forrests

queen,

With thy disheveld nymphs attyred in youthful greene, About the Launds hast scowred, and wastes both farre

and neere,

Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries

heere

Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty Red,
The Stag for goodly shape, and statelinesse of head,

Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom when with his hounds

The laboring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds,
Where harbor'd is the Hart; there often from his feed
The dogs of him doe find; or thorough skilfull heed,
The Huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceaves,
Or entring of the thicke by pressing of the greaves,
Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the Hart doth
hear

The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair,
He rouzing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth
drive,

As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.
And through the combrous thicks as fearefully he makes,
He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes,
That sprinkling their moyst pearle doe seeme for him to
weepe;

When after goes the Cry, with yellings lowd and deepe,
That all the forrest rings and every neighbouring place :
And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase.
Rechating with his horne, which then the hunter cheeres,
Whilst still the lustie Stag his high-palmed head upbeares,
His body shewing state, with unbent knees upright,
Expressing (from all beasts) his courage in his flight,
But when th' approaching foes still following he perceives,
That hee his speed must trust, his usuall walke he leaves,
And o'er the Champaine flies; which when th' assembly
find,

Each followes, as his horse were footed with the wind.
But beeing then imbost, the noble stately Deere,
When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arere)

Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soyle;

That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foyle, And makes amongst the heards and flocks of shag-wool'd

sheep,

Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keepe.

But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,

Put quite out of his walke, the wayes and fallowes tries; Whom when the Plowman meets, his teame he letteth stand,

Tassaile him with his goad: so with his hooke in hand,
The Shepheard him pursues, and to his dog doth halow :
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen
follow;

Until the noble Deere, through toil bereaved of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then fayling him at length,
The Villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To anything hee meets now at his sad decay.
The cruell ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but feare,
Some banke or quick-set finds; to which his hanch
oppos'd,

He turnes upon his foes, that soone have him inclos'd.
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,
And as their cruell fangs on his harsh skin they lay,

With his sharp-poynted head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The Hunter, comming in to help his wearied hounds,
He desperatly assayles; untill opprest by force,
He who the Mourner is to his owne dying corse,
Upon the ruthlesse earth his precious teares let fall.
(From the Thirteenth Song.)

The woosell is the ouzel; the tydie, a golden-crested wren or a titmouse; nope, the bullfinch; hecco is a name for a woodpecker that assumes some thirty forms as various as hickwall, ickle, yuckel, hee-haw, and heigh-ho; greave is an old form of grove; emboss or imboss, said of a hunted animal, is to take shelter in a thicket; rechating is a particular measure on the horn.

Coleridge notes as admirable a passage on the cutting down of the old English forests:

Our trees so hacked above the ground, That where their lofty tops the neighbouring countries crowned,

Their trunks, like aged folks, now bare and naked stand, As for revenge to Heaven each held a withered hand.

Ballad of Agincourt. Faire stood the wind for France, When we our Sayles advance, Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;

But putting to the Mayne
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial trayne,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy howre;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stop'd his way,
Where the French gen'rall lay

With all his power.

Which in his hight of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransome to provide

To the King 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 amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battels so bravely wonne
Have ever to the sunne

By Fame beene raysed.

And for myselfe (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'r mourne for Me,
Nor more esteeme me.
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth lie slaine,
Never shall shee sustaine

Losse to redeeme 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, Clayming the regall seate, By many a warlike feate,

Lop'd the French lillies. The Duke of Yorke so dread, The eager vaward led; With the maine Henry sped, Amongst his hench-men. Excester had the rere,

A braver man not there,

O Lord, how hot they were
On the false French men !

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drumme now to drumme did groan,

To heare was wonder;
That with cryes they make,
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which did the signall ayme

To our hid forces;

When from a medow by,
Like a storme suddenly,

The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish Ewgh so strong,
Arrowes 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 downe their bowes they threw,
And forth their bilbowes drew,
And on the French they flew ;

Not one was tardie;

Armes were from shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the teeth were rent,
Down the French pesants went,
Our men were hardie.
This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'r whelme it;

And many a deepe wound lent,
His armes with bloud besprent,
And many a cruell dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royall 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.

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When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,

Above the seas that flowes,
The cleare wind throwes,
Your hearts to swell
Approching the deare strand;

In kenning of the shore
(Thanks to God first given),
O you the happy'st men,
Be frolique then,

Let cannons roare,
Frighting the wide heaven.

And in regions far

Such heroes bring yee forth,

As those from whom we came,

And plant our name

Under that starre

Not knowne unto our North.

The canzonet, 'To his Coy Love,' that begins :

I pray thee, leave: love me no more,

Call home the hart you gave me;
I but in vaine that Saint adore

That can but will not save me.

These poore halfe kisses kill me quite ;
Was ever man thus served?

Amidst an ocean of delight

For pleasure to be sterved

contains the ingenious conceit :

O Tantalus! thy paines ne'er tell,
By mee thou art prevented;
Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,
But thus in Heaven tormented!

and ends :

Come nice thing, let thy heart alone,
I cannot live without thee.

Most famous of Drayton's short poems is the

Valediction.

Since ther's no helpe, 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 my selfe can free.
Shake hands for ever; Cancell all our Vowes,
And when we meet at any time againe,
Be it not seen in either of our browes
That we one jot of former Love reteyne.
Now at the last gaspe of Loves latest Breath,
When, his Pulse fayling, Passion speechlesse 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.

The following (modernised in spelling) describes the setting out of Mab, Queen of the Fairies, to visit Pigwiggin, 'a fairy knight':

From the 'Nymphidia.'

Her chariot ready straight is made;
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stay'd,
For nought must be her 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)

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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 Drab so clear,
Pip and Trip, and Skip, that were
To Mab their sovereign dear,

Her special maids of honour;
Fib and Tib, and Pink and Pin,
Tick and Quick, and Jill and Jin,
Tit and Nit, and Wap and Win,
The train that wait upon her.

Upon a grasshopper 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.

There is a memoir by Payne Collier in his volume of poems by Drayton for the Roxburghe Club (1856); in 1876 the Rev. R. Hooper edited the Polyolbion; A. H. Bullen published Selections from the poems in 1883; the Rev. C. Beeching, Selections from Daniel and Drayton in 1899; and since 1885 the Spenser Society has issued the Polyolbion in 3 vols. folio, and also four quarto volumes of his poems.

Josua Sylvester (1563-1618), translator of Du Bartas, was the son of a Kentish clothier, was put to trade against his will, wrote numberless poems and dedications, was groom of the chamber to Prince Henry, and in 1613 became secretary to the English merchants at Middelburg in Holland, where he died. He is now only remembered in a shadowy way as the translator of the Divine Weeks and Works of the French poet Du Bartas. The translation - or rather paraphrase — was highly popular, and earned for him among his contemporaries the epithet of 'silver-tongued Sylvester.' Drayton, Drummond, Bishop Hall, Izaak Walton, and others praise the work, and Milton has been credited with copying some of its expressions. Charles Dunster even said (in 1800) that Sylvester's Du Bartas contains the prima stamina of Paradise Lost; but this is much too unqualified a statement, though no doubt Milton read Sylvester's poem in his youth, and may have got suggestions therein. Dryden in youth preferred Sylvester to Spenser, but by-and-by came to look on his verse as 'abominable fustian.'

Satan's Temptation of Eve.

As a false Lover that thick snares hath laid T' intrap the honour of a fair young Maid, When she (though little) listning ear affords To his sweet, courting, deep-affected words, Feels some asswaging of his freezing flame, And sooths himselfe with hope to gain his game; And, rapt with joy, upon this point persists, That parley'ng Citie never long resists:

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