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Best Famous Michael Drayton Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Michael Drayton poems. This is a select list of the best famous Michael Drayton poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Michael Drayton poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Michael Drayton poems.

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Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XL: My Heart the Anvil

 My heart the anvil where my thoughts do beat; 
My words the hammers fashioning my desire; 
My breast the forge including all the heat; 
Love is the fuel which maintains the fire; 
My sighs the bellows which the flame increaseth, 
Filling mine ears with noise and nightly groaning; 
Toiling with pain, my labor never ceaseth, 
In grievous passions my woes still bemoaning; 
My eyes with tears against the fire striving, 
Whose scorching gleed my heart to cinders turneth,
But with these drops the flame again reviving, 
Still more and more it to my torment turneth.
With Sisyphus thus do I roll the stone, And turn the wheel with damned Ixion.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XXXVI: Thou Purblind Boy

 Cupid Conjured

Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack 
To wound her heart, whose eyes have wounded me, 
And suffer'd her to glory in my wrack, 
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee: 
By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears, 
By thy fair mother's unavoided power, 
By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears 
When she was rapt to the infernal bower, 
By thine own loved Psyche, by the fires 
Spent on thine alters flaming up to heav'n, 
By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires, 
By all the wounds that ever thou hast giv'n: 
I conjure thee by all that I have nam'd 
To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damn'd.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XLVI: Plain-Pathd Experience

 Plain-path'd Experience, th'unlearned's guide, 
Her simple followers evidently shows 
Sometimes what Schoolmen scarcely can decide, 
Nor yet wise Reason absolutely knows.
In making trial of a murther wrought, If the vile actors of the heinous deed Near the dead body happily be brought, Oft it hath been prov'd the breathless corse will bleed.
She's coming near, that my poor heart hath slain, Long since departed, to the world no more, The ancient wounds no longer can contain, But fall to bleeding as they did before.
But what of this? Should she to death be led, It furthers justice, but helps not the dead.


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Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XLIII: Why Should Your Fair Eyes

 Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace 
Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit, 
Whilst I in darkness, in the self-same place, 
Get not one glance to recompense my merit? 
So doth the plowman gaze the wand'ring star, 
And only rest contented with the light, 
That never learn'd what constellations are 
Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight.
O why should Beauty, custom to obey, To their gross sense apply herself so ill? Would God I were as ignorant as they, When I am made unhappy by my skill, Only compell'd on this poor good to boast: Heav'ns are not kind to them that know them most.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XVI: Mongst All the Creatures

 An Allusion to the Phoenix

'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; 
None like to that, none like to you is found.
Your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun, The precious spices be your chaste desire, Which being kindled by that heav'nly fire, Your life so like the Phoenix's begun; Yourself thus burned in that sacred flame, With so rare sweetness all the heav'ns perfuming, Again increasing as you are consuming, Only by dying born the very same; And, wing'd by fame, you to the stars ascend, So you of time shall live beyond the end.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet LXI: Since Theres No Help

 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 giv'n him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

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.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

To the Reader of These Sonnets

 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, 
Which better may his labor satisfy.
No far-fetch'd sigh shall ever wound my breast, Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring, Nor in Ah me's my whining sonnets drest; A libertine, fantasticly I sing.
My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change, And as thus to variety inclin'd, So in all humours sportively I range.
My Muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

The Parting

 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.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XXV: O Why Should Nature

 O why should Nature niggardly restrain 
That foreign nations relish not our tongue? 
Else should my lines glide on the waves of Rhene 
And crown the Pyrens with my living song.
But, bounded thus, to Scotland get you forth, Thence take you wing unto the Orcades; There let my verse get glory in the North, Making my sighs to thaw the frozen seas; And let the Bards within that Irish isle, To whom my Muse with fiery wing shall pass, Call back the stiff-neck'd rebels from exile, And mollify the slaught'ring Gallowglass; And when my flowing numbers they rehearse, Let wolves and bears be charmed with my verse.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Roc

 All feathered things yet ever known to men, 
From the huge Rucke, unto the little Wren; 
From Forrest, Fields, from Rivers and from Pons, 
All that have webs, or cloven-footed ones; 
To the Grand Arke, together friendly came, 
Whose several species were too long to name


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet LXII: When First I Ended

 When first I ended, then I first began, 
The more I travell'd, further from my rest, 
Where most I lost, there most of all I wan,
Pined with hunger rising from a feast.
Methinks I fly, yet want I legs to go, Wise in conceit, in act a very sot, Ravish'd with joy amid a hell of woe; What most I seem, that surest am I not.
I build my hopes a world above the sky, Yet with the mole I creep into the earth; In plenty I am starv'd with penury, And yet I surfeit in the greatest dearth.
I have, I want, despair and yet desire, Burn'd in a sea of ice and drown'd amidst a fire.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XLVIII: Cupid I Hate Thee

 Cupid, I hate thee, which I'd have thee know; 
A naked starveling ever may'st thou be.
Poor rogue, go pawn thy fascia and thy bow For some few rags wherewith to cover thee.
Or, if thou'lt not, thy archery forbear, To some base rustic do thyself prefer, And when corn's sown or grown into the ear, Practise thy quiver and turn crow-keeper.
Or, being blind, as fittest for the trade, Go hire thyself some bungling harper's boy; They that are blind are often minstrels made; So may'st thou live, to thy fair mother's joy, That whilst with Mars she holdeth her old way, Thou, her blind son, may'st sit by them and play.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet II: My Heart Was Slain

 My heart was slain, and none but you and I; 
Who should I think the murther should commit, 
Since but yourself there was no creature by, 
But only I, guiltless of murth'ring it? 
It slew itself; the verdict on the view 
Doth quit the dead, and me not accessary.
Well, well, I fear it will be prov'd by you, The evidence so great a proof doth carry.
But O, see, see, we need inquire no further: Upon your lips the scarlet drops are found, And in your eye the boy that did the murther; Your cheeks yet pale, since first he gave the wound.
By this I see, however things be past, Yet Heaven will still have murther out at last.


Written by Michael Drayton | |

Idea LI: Calling to mind since first my love begun

 Calling to mind since first my love begun,
Th' incertain times oft varying in their course,
How things still unexpectedly have run,
As t' please the fates by their resistless force:
Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen
Essex' great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain,
The quiet end of that long-living Queen,
This King's fair entrance, and our peace with Spain,
We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever:
Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel.
Yet to my goddess am I constant ever, Howe'er blind fortune turn her giddy wheel: Though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue, Yet am I still inviolate to you.