[MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Hartshull in Warwickshire about the year 1563. He died on the 23d of December, 1631, and lies buried in Westminster Abbey. In 1591 he published The Harmony of the Church, which was for some unknown reason refused a license, and has never been reprinted till recently. It was followed by Idea and The Pastorals, 1593; Mortimeriados (the Barons' Wars), 1596; The Heroical Epistles (one had been separately printed, 1598); The Owl, 1604; Legends of Cromwell and others, 1607-1613; Pelyolbion (first eighteen books, 1612, whole, 1622); The Battle of Agincourt, 1626; besides minor works at intervals.] Which stuck there like a curious seal, As though it should forbid Us, wretched mortals, to reveal Renew us like the teeming springs, And we thus fresh are seen." At length I on a fountain light, Besides, the flowers which it had press'd, The bank with daffodillies dight More fresh and lovely than the rest, That in the meadows grew. The clear drops, in the steps that stood Of that delicious girl, The nymphs, amongst their dainty food, Drunk for dissolved pearl. The yielding sand, where she had trod, Where I might Cynthia find. When on upon my wayless walk I like a madman fell to talk I ask'd some lilies, "Why so white I ask'd a nodding violet, "Why It told me, "Cynthia late past by," A bed of roses saw I there, Bewitching with their grace, Besides so wond'rous sweet they were, That they perfum'd the place. I of a shrub of those inquir'd, From others of that kind, Who with such virtue them inspir'd? It answer'd (to my mind): As the base hemlock were we such, The poisoned'st weed that grows, Till Cynthia, by her godlike touch, Transform'd us to the rose. "Since when those frosts that winter brings Which candy every green, With grass like sleeve was matted: When I demanded of that well What pow'r frequented there; Desiring it would please to tell What name it us'd to bear: It told me, "It was Cynthia's own, "Since when that water had the pow'r Lost maidenhoods to restore And make one twenty in an hour, Of Æson's age before," And told me, "That the bottom clear, Now lay'd with many a fett Of seed pearl, e'er she bath'd her there Was known as black as jet: "As when she from the water came Where first she touch'd the mould, In balls the people made the same For pomander, and sold." When chance me to an arbour led, The place which she had chosen out, Had they come down the gods no doubt The wealthy Spring yet never bore The birch, the myrtle, and the bay, Where she like Venus doth appear Upon a rosy bed; As lilies the soft pillows were, Whereon she lay'd her head. Heav'n on her shape such cost bestow'd, And with such bounties blest, No limb of hers but might have made A goddess at the least. The flies by chance mesh'd in her hair, They so like diamonds shone. The meanest weed the soil there bare, The dew which on the tender grass The shades with sweets that fill'd. The winds were hush'd, no leaf so small Where she too quickly me espies, "Into these secret shades (quoth she) Or touch this hallowed mould? "Those words (quoth she) I can pro nounce, Which to that shape can bring Thee, which that hunter had, who once Saw Dian in the spring." "Bright nymph (again I thus reply), This cannot me afright: I had rather in thy presence die, "I first upon the mountains high And grav'd it on the rocks thereby, To propagate thy fame. "I taught the shepherds on the downs Of thee to form their lays: 'Twas I that fill'd the neighboring towns With ditties of thy praise. "Thy colors I devis'd with care, Which were unknown before: Yea, what most hateful is to man, Which when she heard, full pearly floods I in her eyes might view. (Quoth she), "Most welcome to these woods Too mean for one so true. "Here from the hateful world we'll live, A den of mere despight: To idiots only that doth give, Which be for sole delight. "To people the infernal pit, That more and more doth strive; Where only villany is wit, And devils only thrive. "Whose vileness us shall never awe: "Of simples in these groves that grow, "The waxen palace of the bee, We seeking will surprise, "We'll suck the sweets out of the comb, And make the gods repine, As they do feast in Jove's great room, To see with what we dine. |