Michael Drayton: Verses about Sleep

An evil spirit, your beauty haunts me still,
Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill,
Nor gives me once but one poor minute's rest;
In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake,
And when by means to drive it out I try,
With greater torments then it me doth take,
And tortures me in most extremity;
Before my face it lays down my despairs,
And hastes me on unto a sudden death,
Now tempting me to drown myself in tears,
And then in sighing to give up my breath.
Thus am I still provok'd to every evil
By this good wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.

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 ordain'd, together friends to keep;
How happy are all other living things
Which through the day disjoin by sev'ral flight,
The quiet ev'ning yet together brings,
And each returns unto his love at night.
O thou, that art so courteous else to all,
Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only thus,
That ev'ry 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.

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 ordain'd together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things
Which, though the day disjoin by sev'ral flight,
The quiet ev'ning 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 ev'ry 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.

In Ionia whence sprang old poets' fame,
From whom that sea did first derive her name,
The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,
Beauty of Greece, the pride of Asia,
Whence Archelaus, whom times historify,
First unto Athens brought philosophy:
In this fair region on a goodly plain,
Stretching her bounds unto the bord'ring main,
The mountain Latmus overlooks the sea,
Smiling to see the ocean billows play:
Latmus, where young Endymion used to keep
His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
To whom Silvanus often would resort,
At barley-brake to see the Satyrs sport;
And when rude Pan his tabret list to sound,
To see the fair Nymphs foot it in a round,
Under the trees which on this mountain grew,
As yet the like Arabia never knew;
For all the pleasures Nature could devise
Within this plot she did imparadise;
And great Diana of her special grace
With vestal rites had hallowed all the place.
Upon this mount there stood a stately grove,
Whose reaching arms to clip the welkin strove,
Of tufted cedars, and the branching pine,
Whose bushy tops themselves do so entwine,
As seem'd, when Nature first this work begun,
She then conspir'd against the piercing sun;
Under whose covert (thus divinely made)
Ph{oe}bus' green laurel flourish'd in the shade,
Fair Venus' myrtle, Mars his warlike fir,
Minerva's olive, and the weeping myrrh,
The patient palm, which thrives in spite of hate,
The poplar, to Alcides consecrate;
Which Nature in such order had disposed,
And therewithal these goodly walks inclosed,
As serv'd for hangings and rich tapestry,
To beautify this stately gallery.
Embroidering these in curious trails along,
The cluster'd grapes, the golden citrons hung,
More glorious than the precious fruit were these,
Kept by the dragon in Hesperides,
Or gorgeous arras in rich colours wrought,
With silk from Afric, or from Indy brought.
Out of this soil sweet bubbling fountains crept,
As though for joy the senseless stones had wept,
With straying channels dancing sundry ways,
With often turns, like to a curious maze;
Which breaking forth the tender grass bedewed,
Whose silver sand with orient pearl was strewed,
Shadowed with roses and sweet eglantine,
Dipping their sprays into this crystalline;
From which the birds the purple berries pruned,
And to their loves their small recorders tuned,
The nightingale, wood's herald of the spring,
The whistling woosel, mavis carolling,
Tuning their trebles to the waters' fall,
Which made the music more angelical;
Whilst gentle Zephyr murmuring among
Kept time, and bare the burthen to the song:
About whose brims, refresh'd with dainty showers,
Grew amaranthus, and sweet gilliflowers,
The marigold, Ph{oe}bus' beloved friend,
The moly, which from sorcery doth defend,
Violet, carnation, balm, and cassia,
Idea's primrose, coronet of may.
Above this grove a gentle fair ascent,
Which by degrees of milk-white marble went:
Upon the top, a paradise was found,
With which Nature this miracle had crown'd,
Empal'd with rocks of rarest precious stone,
Which like the flames of Ætna brightly shone,
And served as lanthorns furnished with light,
To guide the wand'ring passengers by night:
For which fair Ph{oe}be, sliding from her sphere,
Used oft times to come and sport her there,
And from the azure starry-painted sky
Embalm'd the banks with precious lunary:
That now her Maenalus she quite forsook,
And unto Latmus wholly her betook,
And in this place her pleasure us'd to take,
And all was for her sweet Endymion's sake;
Endymion, the lovely shepherds' boy,
Endymion, great Ph{oe}be's only joy,
Endymion, in whose pure-shining eyes
The naked fairies danced the heydegies.
The shag-hair'd Satyrs' mountain-climbing race
Have been made tame by gazing in his face.
For this boy's love, the water-nymphs have wept,
Stealing oft times to kiss him whilst he slept,
And tasting once the nectar of his breath,
Surfeit with sweet, and languish unto death;
And Jove oft-times bent to lascivious sport,
And coming where Endymion did resort,
Hath courted him, inflamed with desire,
Thinking some nymph was cloth'd in boy's attire.
And often-times the simple rural swains,
Beholding him in crossing o'er the plains,
Imagined, Apollo from above
Put on this shape, to win some maiden's love.
...

NEAR to the silver Trent
   SIRENA dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
   All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
   And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
   Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem
   Wherewith to crown her,
As it belong'd to them
   Most to renown her.
   On thy bank,
   In a rank,
   Let thy swans sing her,
   And with their music
   Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus
   Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
   Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
   Be thou the River
Which, as the daintiest,
   Puts them down ever.
For as my precious one
   O'er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
   Turneth thy gravel.
   On thy bank...

Our mournful Philomel,
   That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
   Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
   From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
   Over and over:
For when my Love too long
   Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffer'd wrong,
   The Morning weepeth.
   On thy bank...

Oft have I seen the Sun,
   To do her honour,
Fix himself at his noon
   To look upon her;
And hath gilt every grove,
   Every hill near her,
With his flames from above
   Striving to cheer her:
And when she from his sight
   Hath herself turned,
He, as it had been night,
   In clouds hath mourned.
   On thy bank...

The verdant meads are seen,
   When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
   Straight to renew them;
And every little grass
   Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
   Upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweet
   In this large cincture,
But it upon her feet
   Leaveth some tincture.
   On thy bank...

The fishes in the flood,
   When she doth angle,
For the hook strive a-good
   Them to entangle;
And leaping on the land,
   From the clear water,
Their scales upon the sand
   Lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
   Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
   As in her glasses.
   On thy bank...

When she looks out by night,
   The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
   Fearfully blazing;
As wond'ring at her eyes
   With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
   Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
   When she speaketh,
Such most delightsome balm
   From her lips breaketh.
   On thy bank...

In all our Brittany
   There 's not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
   Should you compare her.
Angels her eyelids keep,
   All hearts surprising;
Which look whilst she doth sleep
   Like the sun's rising:
She alone of her kind
   Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatched mind
   Is heaven's treasure.
   On thy bank...

Fair Dove and Darwen clear,
   Boast ye your beauties,
To Trent your mistress here
   Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
   Tow'rds the full fountains,
Yet she doth moorland scorn
   And the Peak mountains;
Nor would she none should dream
   Where she abideth,
Humble as is the stream
   Which by her slideth.
   On thy bank...

Yet my pour rustic Muse
   Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,
   Though her true lover:
Many a long winter's night
   Have I waked for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
   Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent,
   Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent
   Never can number.
   On thy bank,
   In a rank,
   Let thy swans sing her,
   And with their music
   Along let them bring her.