NOTHING is known of the lady who inspired the love-sonnets of Drayton, except that she resided on the banks of the Ankor. As Drayton himself was born near that river (in the village of Harshull, or Hartshill, in the parish of Atherston), it is probable. that he met her there in his youth. She was born on the 4th of August, in Coventry, if his “HYMN TO HIS LADY'S BIRTH PLACE," may be taken as evidence, and resided at one time in Mich-Parke, a noted street of that town. He celebrated her under the singular name of Idea. His sonnets were first published in 1593. The Hymn was written some ten or twelve years later, certainly after the death of Queen Elizabeth, in 1603.
Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,
Which there in order take their several places;
In whose dear bosom sweet, delicious Love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear:
Since he that blesséd paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there:
Let others strive to entertain with words,
My soul is of a braver metal made,
I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords;
In me's that faith which time can not invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you :
Be you most worthy whilst I am most true.
'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round,
Of the birds' kind, the phenix 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 splendorous Sun,
The precious spices be your chaste desire,
Which being kindled by that heavenly fire,
Your life so like the phenix's begun;
Yourself thus burnéd in that sacred flame,
With so rare sweetness all the heavens perfuming,
Again increasing, as you are consuming,
Only by dying, born the very same;
And winged by fame, you to the stars ascend,
So you of time shall live beyond the end.
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."
O, judge not rashly (gentle sir) I pray,
Because I loosely trifle in this sort,
As one that fain his sorrows would beguile :
You now suppose me all this time in sport,
And please yourself with this conceit the while.
Ye shallow censors, sometimes see ye not,
In greatest perils some men pleasant be,
Where fame by death is only to be got,
They resolute? So stands the case with me;
Where other men in depth of passion cry,
I laugh at fortune, as in jest to die.
Dear, why should you command me to my rest, When now the night doth summon all to sleep? Methinks this time becometh lovers best;
Night was ordained together friends to keep:
How happy are all other living things,
Which through the day disjoin by several flight,
The quiet evening yet together brings,
And each returns unto his love at night!
O, thou that art so courteous else to all!
Why should'st thou, Night, abuse me only thus?
That every creature to his kind 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 go away.
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 recompence my merit?
So doth the ploughman gaze the wandering star,
And only rest contented with the light,
That never learned 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 compelled on this poor good to boast,
Heavens are not kind to them that know them most.
Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore,
My soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea lies,
O blesséd brook, whose milk-white swans adore
Thy crystal stream refinéd by her eyes,
Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring
Gently distils his nectar-dropping showers,
Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing,
Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers;
Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen,
Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wandering years,
And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been,
And here to thee he sacrificed his tears:
Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone,
And thou, sweet Ankor, art my Helicon.
You, best discerned of my mind's inward eyes,
And yet your graces outwardly divine,
Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,
Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine:
You, in whom Nature chose herself to view,
When she her own perfection would admire,
Bestowing all her excellence on you,
At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire.
Even as a man that in some trance had seen
More than his wondering utterance can unfold,
That wrapt in spirit, in better worlds hath been,
So must your praise distractedly be told:
Most of all short, when I should show you most,
In your perfections so much am I lost.
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 forever, 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 would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.
TO HIS LADY'S BIRTH PLACE.
Coventry, that dost adorn
The country wherein I was born,
Yet therein lies not thy praise,
Why I should crown thy towers with bays:
'Tis not thy wall me to thee weds,
Thy ports, nor thy proud pyramids,
Nor thy trophies of the boar,
But that she which I adore,
Which scarce Goodness' self can pair,
First there breathing blessed thy air.
Idea, in which name I hide
Her, in my heart deified,
For what good man's mind can see,
Only her ideas be;
She, in whom the virtues came
In woman's shape, and took her name,
She, so far past imitation,
As but Nature our creation
Could not alter, she had aimed
More than woman to have framed :
She, whose truly-written story,
To thy poor name shall add more glory,
Than if it should have been thy chance
T' have bred our kings that conquered France.
Had she been born the former age,
That house had been a pilgrimage,
And reputed more divine,
Than Walsingham or Becket's shrine.
That princess, to whom thou dost owe Thy freedom, whose clear blushing snow The envious Sun saw, when as she
Naked rode to make thee free,
Was but her type, as to foretell
Thou should'st bring forth one, should excell
Her bounty, by whom thou should'st have
More honour, than she freedom gave;
And that great queen, which but of late
Ruled this land in peace and state,
Had not been, but Heaven had sworn
A maid should reign when she was born.
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