Being thoroughly heated in these amorous fires,
Wholly transported with the dear desires
Of her embraces: for the living soul,
Being individual, uniform and whole,
By her unwearied faculties doth find
That which the flesh of duller earth by kind
Not apprehends, and by her function makes
Good her own state; Endymion now forsakes
All the delights that shepherds do prefer,
And sets his mind so gen'rally on her,
That all neglected to the groves and springs,
He follows Phoebe, that him safely brings
(As their great queen) unto the nymphish bowers,
Wherein clear rivers beautified with flowers,
The silver Naides " bathe them in the brack,
Sometime with her the sea-horse he doth back,
Amongst the blue Nereides"; and when
Weary of waters, goddess-like agen,
She the high mountains actively assays,
And there amongst the light Oriades 27,
That ride the swift roes, Phoebe doth resort;
Sometime amongst those that with them comport,
The Hamadriades 28, doth the woods frequent;
And there she stays not, but incontinent,
Calls down the dragons that her chariot draw,
And with Endymion pleased that she saw,
Mounteth thereon, in twinkling of an eye,
Stripping the winds, beholding from the sky
The Earth in roundness of a perfect ball,
Which as a point but of this mighty all,
Wise Nature fix'd, that permanent doth stay,
Whereas the spheres by a diurnal sway
Of the first Mover carried are about.
And how the several elements throughout,
Strongly infolded, and the vast air spread
In sundry regions, in the which are bred
Those strange impressions often that appear
To fearful mortals, and the causes there,
And light'ned by her piercing beams, he sees
The powerful planets, how in their degrees,
In their due seasons they do fall and rise:
And how the signs in their triplicities
Be sympathizing in their trine consents,
With whose inferior forming elements,
From which our bodies the complexions take,
Natures and number: strongly and do make
Our dispositions like them, and on Earth
The power the Heavens have over mortal birth,
That their effects which men call fortune, are
As is that good or inauspicious star,
Which at the frail nativity doth reign.
Yet here her love could Phoebe not contain,
And knowledge him so strongly doth inspire,
That in most plenty, more he doth desire;
Raising him up to those excelling sights,
The glorious Heaven, where all the fixed lights,
Whose images suppos'd to be therein,
Are fram'd of stars, whose names did first begin
By those wise ancients, not to stellify
The first world's heroes only, but imply
To teach their courses, for distinguished
In constellations, a delight first bred

In slothful man, into the same to look,
That from those figures nomination took,
Which they resembled her on Earth below,
And the bright Phoebe subtilly doth know
The heavenly motions high her orb above,
As well as those that under her do move.
For with long titles do we her invest,
So these great three most powerful of the rest,
Phoebe, Diana, Hecate, do tell,

Her sovereignty in Heaven, in Earth and Hell;
And wise Apollo, that doth likewise send
Her his pure beams, with them doth likewise send
His wondrous knowledge, for that god most bright,
King of the planets, fountain of the light 30:
That seeth all things, will have her to see,
So far as where the sacred angels be.

32

Those hierarchies that Jove's great will supply,
Whose orders formed in triplicity,
Holding their places by the treble trine,
Make up that holy theologic nine 3:
Thrones, cherubin, and seraphin " that rise,
As the first three, when principalities,
With dominations, potestates are plac'd
The second; and the ephionian last,
Which virtues, angels, and archangels be.

"Thus yonder man that in the moon you see, Rapt up from Latmus, thus she doth prefer, And goes about continually with her:

Over the world that every month doth look,
And in the same there's scarce that secret nook
That he surveys not, and the places hidden
Whence simple truth and candle-light forbidden
Dare not approach, he peepeth with his light;
Whereas suspicious Policy by night
Consults with Murder, Baseness at their hand,
Armed to act whatever they command,
With guilty conscience and intent so foul,
That oft they start at whooping of an owl,
And slily peering at a little pore,

See one sometimes content to keep the door:
One would not think the bawd that did not know,
Such a brave body could descend so low.
And the base churl, the Sun that dare not trust,
With his old gold, yet smelling it doth rust,
Lays it abroad, but locks himself within
Three doubled locks, or ere he dare begin
To ope his bags, and being sure of all;
Else, yet therewith dare scarcely trust the wall:
And with a candle in a filthy stick,
The grease not fully covering the wick,
Pores o'er his base god, forth a flame that fries,
Almost as dim as his foul bleared eyes:
Yet like to a great murderer, that gave
Some slight reward unto some bloody knave,
To kill, the second secretly doth slay,
Fearing lest he the former should betray:
He the poor candle murd'reth ere burnt not,
Because that he the secresy doth doubt;
And oftentimes the Mooned-man outspies
The eve-dropper, and circumspectly eyes
The thief and lover, 'specially which two
With night and darkness have the most to do.
And not long since, besides this, did behold
Some of you here, when you should tend your fold,
A nights were wenching: thus he me doth tell,"
With that, they all in such a laughter fell,

30 Sol, fons lucis.

31 Nine the most holy number.

32 The nine orders of the angels,

That the field rang: when from a village near
The watchful cock crew, and with notes full clear
The early lark soon summoned the day,
When they departed every one their way.

ODES:

WITH OTHER LYRIC POESIES.

TO THE WORTHY KNIGHT AND MY NOBLE FRIEND,

SIR HENRY GOODERE,

A GENTLEMAN OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRIVY CHAMBER.

THESE lyric pieces, short and few,
Most worthy sir, I send to you,

To read them be not weary:
They may become John Hewes his lyre,
Which oft at Powlsworth by the fire

Hath made us gravely merry.
Believe it, he must have the trick
Of rhyming with invention quick,
That should do lyrics well:
But how I have done in this kind,
Though in myself I cannot find,

Your judgment best can tell.

Th' old British bards, upon their harps,
For falling flats, and rising sharps,

That curiously were strung ;
To stir their youth to warlike rage,
Or their wild fury to assuage,

In their loose numbers sung.
No more I for fools' censures pass,
Than for the braying of an ass,

Nor once mine ear will lend them:
If you but please to take in gree
These Odes, sufficient 'tis to me;
Your liking can commend them.

those of the inimitable Pindar, consecrated to the glory and renown of such as returned in triumph from Olympus, Elis, Isthmus, or the like: Others among the Greeks are amorous, soft, and made for chambers, as others for theatres; as were Anacreon's, the very delicacies of the Grecian Erato, which Muse seemed to have been the minion of that Teian old man, which composed them: Of a mixed kind were Horace's, and may truly therefore be called his mixed; whatsoever else are mine, little partaking of the high dialect of the first:

Though we be all to seek
Of Pindar that great Greek.

Nor altogether of Anacreon, the arguments being amorous, moral, or what else the Muse pleaseth. To write much in this kind, neither know I how it will relish, nor in so doing, can I but injuriously presuppose ignorance or sloth in thee, or draw censure upon myself, for sinning against the decorum of a preface, by reading a lecture, when it is enough to sum the points. New they are, and the work of playing hours; but what other commendation is theirs, and whether inherent in the subject, must be thine to judge. But to act the go-between of my poems and thy applause, is neither my modesty nor confidence, that oftener than once have acknowledged thee kind, and do not doubt hereafter to do somewhat in which I shall not fear thee just: and would at this time also gladly let thee understand what I think above the rest, of the last ode of this number, or if thou wilt, ballad in my book: for both the great master of Italian rhymes Petrarch, and our Chaucer, and other of the upper house of the Muses, have thought their canzons honoured in the title of a ballad; which for that I labour to meet truly therein with the old English garb, I hope as able to justify, as the learned Colin Clout his roundelay. Thus requesting thee in thy better judgment, to correct such faults as have escaped in the printing, I bid thee farewel,

ODES.

M. DRAYTON,

Yours,

M. DRAYTON.

TO THE READER.

ODES I have called these my few poems; which how happy soever they prove, yet criticism itself cannot say, that the name is wrongfully usurped: for (not to begin with definitions against the rule of oratory, nor ab ovo, against the prescript rule of poetry in a poetical argument, but somewhat only to season thy palate with a slight description) an ode is known to have been properly a song, modelled to the ancient harp, and neither too short breathed, as hasting to the end, nor composed of the longest verses, as unfit for the sudden turns and lofty tricks with which Apollo used to manage it. They are (as the learned say) divers: Some transcendently lofty, and far more high than the apie (commonly called the heroic poem) witness

TO HIMSELF, AND THE HARD.

AND why not I, as he
That's greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that strive,
Since there so many be)

Th' old lyric kind revive?

I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way?
For what is he alone,
That of himself can say,
He's heir of Helicon ?

Apollo, and the Nine,
Forbid no man their shrine,

That cometh with hands pure;
Else they be so divine,
They will him not endure.

For they be such coy things,
That they care not for kings,

And dare let them know it; Nor may he touch their springs, That is not born a poet.

The Phocean' it did prove,
Whom when foul lust did move,
Those maids unchaste to make,
Fell, as with them he strove,
His neck and justly brake.
That instrument ne'er heard,
Struck by the skilful bard,
It strongly to awake;
But it th' infernals scar'd,

2

And made Olympus quake,
As those prophetic strings
Whose sounds with fiery wings
Drove fiends from their abode,
Touch'd by the best of kings,

That sung the holy ode.

So his, which women slew,
And it in't Hebrus threw,

Such sounds yet forth it sent,
The banks to weep that drew,

As down the stream it went.
That by the tortoise-shell,
To Maya's son it fell,

The most thereof no doubt
But sure some power did dwell
In him who found it out.

The wildest of the field,
And air, with rivers t' yield,

Which mov'd: that sturdy glebes,

And massy oaks could wield

To raise the piles of Thebes".

And diversly through strong,
So anciently we sung

To it, that now scarce known,

If first it did belong

To Greece or if our own.

The Druides imbru'd
With gore, on altars rude
With sacrifices crown'd'
In hollow woods bedew'd,
Ador'd the trembling sound.

Though we be all to seek
Of Pindar' that great Greek,
To finger it aright,
The soul with power to strike,
His hand retain'd such might.

Or him that Rome did grace,
Whose airs we all embrace,

That scarcely found his peer,
Nor giveth Phoebus place
For strokes divinely clear.
The Irish I admire,
And still cleave to that lyre,

As our music's mother,
And think, till I expire,
Apollo's such another.

As Britons, that so long
Have held this antique song,
And let all our carpers-
Forbear their fame to wrong,
Th' are right skilful harpers.
Southern 10, I long thee spare,
Yet wish thee well to fare,

Who me pleased'st greatly,
As first, therefore more rare,
Handling thy harp neatly.

To those that with despite
Shall term these numbers slight,
Tell them their judgment's blind,
Much erring from the right,

It is a noble kind.

Great Janus, I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian treasure,

Do seriously pursue;
To the pass'd year returning,
As though the old adjourning,
Yet bringing in the new.

Thy ancient vigils yearly
I have observed clearly,

Thy feasts yet smoking be;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Give something to my goddess,
As hath been us'd by thee.
Give her th' Eoan brightness,
Wing'd with that subtil lightness,
That doth transpierce the air;
The roses of the morning
The rising heav'n adorning,
To mesh with flames of hair,

Those ceaseless sounds, above all,
Made by those orbs that move all,
And every swelling there,
Wrapp'd up in numbers flowing,
Them actually bestowing,
For jewels at her ear.

O rapture great and holy,
Do thou transport me wholly,

So well her form to vary,
That I aloft may bear her,
Whereas I will insphere her

In regions high and starry.

And in my choice composures
The soft and easy closures

So amorously shall meet;
That ev'ry lively ceasure
Thall tread a perfect measure,
Set on so equal feet,

That spray to fame so fertile,
The lover-crowning myrtle,

In wreaths of mixed bows, Within whose shades are dwelling Those beauties most excelling, Enthron'd upon her brows.

Those parallels so even,
Drawn on the face of Heaven,

That curious art supposes,

Direct those gems, whose clearness Far off amaze by nearness,

Each globe such fire encloses.

Her bosom full of blisses,
By nature made for kisses,
So pure and wondrous clear,
Whereas a thousand graces
Behold their lovely faces,

As they are bathing there.

O, thou self-little blindness,
The kindness of unkindness,

Yet one of those divine;
Thy brands to me were lever,
Thy fascia, and thy quiver,

And thou this quill of mine,

This heart so freshly bleeding,
Upon its own self feeding,

Whose wounds still dropping be;
O love, thyself confounding,
Her coldness so abounding,
And yet such heat in me.

Yet if I be inspired,
I'll leave thee so admired,

To all that shall succeed,

That were they more than many, 'Mongst all, there is not any

That time so oft shall reed.

Nor adamant engraved,

That hath been choicely'st saved,

Idea's name out-wears; So large a dower as this is, The greatest often misses, The diadem that bears.

TO HIS VALENTINE.

MUSE, bid the worn awake,
Sad winter now declines,
Each bird doth chuse a make,

This day's St. Valentine's;
For that good bishop's sake
Get up, and let us sce,
What beauty it shall be,
That fortune us assigns.
But lo, in happy hour,

The place wherein she lies,
In yonder climbing tow'r,

Gilt by the glitt❜ring rise;
O Jove! that in a show'r,
As once that thund'rer did,
When he in drops lay hid,
That I could her surprise.
Her canopy I'll draw,

With spangled plumes bedight,
No mortal ever saw

So ravishing a sight;
That it the gods might awe,
And pow'rfully transpierce
The globy universe,
Out-shooting ev'ry light.
My lips I'll softly lay

Upon her heav'nly cheek,
Dy'd like the dawning day,
As polish'd ivory sleek:
And in her ear I'll say;
"O thou bright morning-star,
'Tis I that come so far,

My Valentine to seck.

Each little bird, this tide,

Doth chuse her loved pheer,
Which constantly abide

In wedlock all the year,

As nature is their guide:
So may we two be true,
This year, nor change for new,
As turtles coupled were.

"The sparrow, swan, the dove,

Tho' Venus' birds they be,
Yet are they not for love

So absolute as we:

For reason us doth move;
They but by billing woo:
Then try what we can do,

To whom each sense is free.
"Which we have more than they,
By livelier organs sway'd,
Our appetite each way

More by our sense obey'd:

Our passions to display,
This season us doth fit;
Then let us follow it,

As nature us doth lead. "One kiss in two let's break,

Confounded with the touch,
But half words let us speak,

Our lips employ'd so much
Until we both grow weak;
With sweetness of thy breath,
O smother me to death:
Long let our joys be such.

"Let's laugh at them that choose

Their Valentines by lot,

To wear their names that use,

Whom idly they have got: Such poor choice we refuse, Saint Valentine befriend; We thus this morn may spend, Else, Muse, awake her not."

THE HEART.

IF thus we needs must go,
What shall our one heart do,
This one made of our two?
Madam, two hearts we break,
And from them both did take
The best, one heart to make.
Half this is of your heart,
Mine in the other part,
Join'd by our equal art,
Wer't cemented, or sown,
By shreds or pieces known,
We each might find our own.
But 'tis dissolv'd, and fix'd,
And with such cunning mix'd,
No diff'rence that betwixt.
But how shall we agree,
By whom it kept shall be,
Whether by you, or me?
It cannot two breasts fill,
One must be heartless still,
Until the other will.

It came to me today,
When I will'd it to say,
With whether it would stay?
It told me, In your breast,
Where it might hope to rest:
For if it were my guest,
For certainty it knew,
That I would still anew
Be sending it to you.
Never, I think, had two
Such work, so much to do
A unity to woo.

Yours was so cold and chaste,
Whilst mine with zeal did waste,
Like fire with water plac'd.
How did my heart entreat,
How pant, how did it beat,
Till it could give yours heat!
Till to that temper brought,
Through our perfection wrought,
That blessing either's thought.
In such a height it lies,
From this base world's dull eyes,
That Heaven it not envies.
All that this Earth can show,
Our heart shall not once know,
For it too vile and low.