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If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time;
And though they be out-stripped by every pen,
Reserve them from my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought!——
Had my friend's muse grown with his growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died, and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.

MICHAEL DRAYTON,

was born at Harsull, in Warwickshire, in 1563, of an ancient and respectable family. It is recorded of him, that while yet a child, he had an earnest desire to be a poet; that he was anxious to know "what kind of creatures those poets were;" entreating his tutor, "of all things, to make him one." He studied at Oxford, and afterwards, is supposed to have served in the army of Elizabeth. He was afterwards Poet Laureat to the unfortunate Charles the First, but did not survive long enough to be a witness of the subsequent trials and martyrdom of his royal master. He died in 1631, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His monument is said to have been erected by the Countess of Dorset, and his epitaph written either by Ben Johnson, or Quarles-who were both friends of the Poet. To his sonnets, he gave the title of Ideas; probably, from their not being formed exactly after the Italian Construction. He was attached to a lady of Coventry, to whom he promised an immortality, which he has not succeeded in conferring, from their being hitherto unappreciated. Many of his sonnets are extremely beautiful, and deserve a far higher popularity than they have yet attained.

THE world's faire Rose, and HENRY'S frostie fire,
JOHN's tyrannie, and chaste MATILDA's wrong,
Th' enraged Queene and furious Mortimer,
The scourge of France, and his chaste love, I sung:
Deposed RICHARD, ISABEL exiled,

The gallant TUDOR, and faire Katherine;

Duke HUMPHREY, and olde COBHAM's haplesse child,
Courageous Poole, and that brave spirit-full Queene,
EDWARD, and the delicious London-Dame,
BRANDON, and that rich Dowager of France;
SURREY, with his faire paragon of Fame,
DUDLEY'S mishap, and virtuous Grey's mischance ;
Their severall loves, since I before have showne,
Now, give mee leave, at last to sing mine owne.

TO THE READER.

MANY there be excelling in this kind,

Whose well-tricked rimes with all invention swell,
Let each commend as best shall like his mind;
Some SIDNEY, CONSTABLE, Some DANIEL.
That thus their names familiarly I sing

Let none think them disparagèd to bee:
Poore men with rev'rence may speake of a king,
And so may these be spoken of by mee;

My wanton Verse ne'er keeps one certain stay;
But now at hand; then, seekes invention far,
And with each little motion runnes astray,
Wilde, madding, jocund, and irregular.

Like me that list, my honest merrie rimes,
Nor care for criticke, nor regard the times.

THINE eyes taught me the Alphabet of love,
To con my cros-row, ere I learned to spell,
For I was apt a scholler like to prove:
Gave me sweet lookes when as I learned well.
Vowes were my vowels, when I then begun,
At my first lesson in thy sacred name;
My consonants the next when I had done,
Words consonant, and sounding to thy fame:
My liquids then, were liquid christall teares,
My cares, my mutes, so mute to crave reliefe,
My doleful dipthongs were my life's despaires,
Redoubling sighes, the Accent of my griefe:
My love's schoole-mistresse now hath taught me so,
That I can reade a story of my woe.

My heart was slaine, and none but you and I.
Who should I think the murther should commit?
Since, but yourselfe, there was no creature by,
But only I, guiltless of murthering it.
It slew itselfe; the verdict on the view
Doe quit the dead, and me not accessary;
Well, well, I feare it will be proved by you,
The evidence so great a proof doth carry.
But, O see! see, we need enquire no further!
Upon your lips the scarlet drops are found,
And in your eye, the boy that did the murther;
Your cheekes yet pale, since first they gave the wound.
By this, I see, however things be past,

Yet heaven will still have murther out at last.

IN pride of wit, when high desire of fame
Gave life and courage to my labouring pen,
And first the sound and virtue of my name
Won grace and credit in the ears of men;
With those the throngèd theatres that press,
I in the circuit for the laurel strove,

Where, the full praise, I freely must confess,
In heat of blood, a modest mind might move.
With shouts and claps, at every little pause,
When the proud round on every side hath rung,
Sadly I sit, unmoved with the applause,
As though to me, it nothing did belong:
No public glory vainly I pursue;
The praise I strive, is, to eternise you.

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,
Is modelled 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-out-wearing rimes,
And murther'st 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 rimes shall cherish,
Where I entombed my better part shall save;
And though this earthly body fade and die,
My name shall mount upon eternity.

DEARE, why should you command me to my rest,
When now,
the night doth summon all to sleepe?
Methinkes this time becometh lovers best,
Night was ordained, together friends to keepe;
How happy are all other living things,

Which though the day disjoyne, by severall flight,

The quiet Evening yet together bringes,
And each returns unto his love at night!

O thou that art so courteous unto all,

Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus,
That every creature to his kinde 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 goe away.

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