And men are better shew'd what is amisse,
By th' expert finger of calamitie,

Then they can be with all that fortune brings,

Who never shewes them the true face of things.

How could we know that thou could'st have indur'd,
With a reposed cheere, wrong and disgrace;
And with a heart and countenance assur'd

Have lookt sterne Death and horror in the face!
How should we know thy soule had beene secur'd
In honest counsels and in way unbase!

Hadst thou not stood to shew us what thou wert,
By thy affliction, that discri'd thy heart.

It is not but the tempest that doth show
The sea-mans cunning; but the field that tries
The captaines courage: and we come to know
Best what men are, in their worst jeoperdies:
For lo, how many have we seene to grow
To high renowne from lowest miseries,
Out of the hands of death, and many a one

T' have beene undone, had they not beene undone.

He that indures for what his conscience knowes

Not to be ill, doth from a patience hie

Looke onely on the cause whereto he owes

Those sufferings, not on his miserie :

The more h' endures, the more his glory growes,

Which never growes from imbecillitie:

Onely the best compos'd and worthiest harts
God sets to act the hardest and constant'st parts.

SONNET.

RESTORE thy tresses to the golden ore,

Yeeld Cithereas sonne those arkes of love;
Bequeath the heavens the starres that I adore,
And to th' orient do thy pearles remove.
Yeeld thy hands pride unto th' ivory white,
T' Arabian odors give thy breathing sweete;
Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright,
To Thetis give the honour of thy feete.

Let Venus have thy graces, her resign'd,

And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheares: But yet restore thy fierce and cruell mind,

To Hyrcan tygres, and to ruthles beares.
Yeeld to the marble thy hard hart againe;
So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to paine.

SONNET.

CARE-CHARMER Sleepe, sonne of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darknes borne:
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With darke forgetting of my care returne.
And let the day be time enought to mourne
The shipwracke of my ill adventred youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to waile their scorne,
Without the torment of the nights untruth.
Cease dreames, th' images of day desires,

To modell forth the passions of the morrow:
Never let rising sunne approve you liers,
To adde more griefe to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleepe, imbracing clouds in vaine,
And never wake to feele the dayes disdaine.

With streames of milke, and hunny dropt from trees,

Not that the earth did gage

Unto the husband-man

Her voluntary fruites, free without fees:

Not for no cold did freeze,

Nor any cloud beguile,

Th' eternall flowring spring

Wherein liv'd every thing,

And whereon th' heavens perpetually did smile,

Not for no ship had brought

From forraine shores, or warres or wares ill sought.

But onely for that name,

That idle name of wind:

That idoll of deceit, that empty sound

Call'd Honor, which became

The tyran of the minde:

And so torments our nature without ground,

Was not yet vainly found:
Nor yet sad griefes imparts
Amidst the sweet delights
Of joyfull amorous wights.

Nor were his hard lawes knowne to free-borne hearts.
But golden lawes like these

Which Nature wrote. That's lawfull which doth please! Then amongst flowres and springs

Making delightfull sport,

Sate lovers without conflict, without flame,

And nymphs and shepheards sings

Mixing in wanton sort

Whisp'rings with songs, then kisses with the same

Which from affection came:

The naked virgin then

Her roses fresh reveales,

Which now her vaile conceales,

The tender apples in her bosome seene,

And oft in rivers cleere

The lovers with their loves consorting were.

Honor, thou first didst close

The spring of all delight:

Denying water to the amorous thirst;

Thou taught'st faire eyes to lose

The glory of their light,

Restrain'd from men, and on themselves reverst.

Thou in a lawne didst first

Those golden haires incase,

Late spred unto the wind;

Thou mad'st loose grace unkind,

Gav'st bridle to their words, art to their pace.

O Honour it is thou

That mak'st that stealth, which love doth free allow.

It is thy worke that brings

Our griefes, and torments thus:

But thou fierce lord of Nature and of Love,

The quallifier of kings,

What doest thou here with us

That are below thy power, shut from above? Goe and from us remove,

Trouble the mighties sleepe,

Let us neglected, base,

Live still without thy grace,

And th' use of th' ancient happy ages keepe; Let's love, this life of ours

Can make no truce with time that all devours.

Let's love, the sun doth set, and rise againe, But when as our short light

Comes once to set, it makes eternall night.

AN ODE.

Now each creature joyes the other,
Passing happy dayes and howers,
One bird reports unto another,

In the fall of silver showers,
Whilst the earth (our common mother)
Hath her bosome deckt with flowers.
Whilst the greatest torch of heaven,
With bright rayes warmes Floras lap,
Making nights and dayes both even,
Chearing plants with fresher sap:
My field of flowers quite bereven,
Wants refresh of better hap.
Eccho, daughter of the aire,

(Babling guest of rocks and hils,)
Knows the name of my fierce faire,
And sounds the accents of my ils.
Each thing pitties my dispaire,
Whilst that she her lover kils.
Whilst that she (O cruell mayd)
Doth me and my love despise,

My lives florish is decayed,
That depended on her eyes:

But her will must be obeyed,

And well he ends for love who dies.

MICHAEL DRAYTON was born at Harsull, Warwickshire, in 1563;-the descendant of an "ancient and worthy" family. "In his tender age he was blessed with a forwardness of genius, a sweetness of aspect, temper and deportment;" and when only ten years old was placed as page to "some person of honour." His mind appears to have had an early bias towards poetry, and it is recorded of him that while yet a child, he was anxious to know what "kind of creatures those Poets were"-beseeching his tutor "of all things to make him one." He studied at Oxford; and afterwards probably held some post in the army of Elizabeth. In 1593, he first appeared before the world as an author; a collection of "Pastorals," was soon followed by the "Barons Wars." In 1613, he published the first part of the Poly-olbion; and the second part in 1622; and in 1626, the addition of Poet Laureat was affixed to his name. In 1631, he "exchanged his laurel for a crown of glory," and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His monument, it is said, was erected by the Countess of Dorset, and his epitaph was written either by Ben Jonson or Quaries--both of whom were his personal friends. The epitaph is a fine model of this style of composition.

"Doe pious marble, let thy Readers know
What they and what their children owe
To Drayton's name; whose sacred dust
We recommend unto thy trust;
Protect his memory and preserve his story,
Remain a lasting monument of his glory;
And when thy ruins shall disclaime
To be the treasurer of his name;
His name, that cannot fade, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee."

Of the numerous works of Drayton-including Congratulatory Odes, Divine Odes, Elegies, Fables, Legends, Heroical Epistles, and Historical Poems-there are but two that have maintained their popularity-Nymphidia, or the Court of Fayrie, and the Poly-olbion. The Nymphidia, which Dr. Anderson characterises as a fine "Prelude " to the Witch's Cauldron in Macbeth-forgetting that Drayton flourished long after the retirement of the great Bard-is manifestly founded on the Midsummer Night's Dream. It is one of the most spirited and fanciful compositions in the language"a master-piece in the grotesque kind." The Poly-olbion he has himself described as "a strange Herculean toil "--but it exhibits the writer's large and accurate knowledge as an historian, an antiquary, a naturalist, and a geographer; and although somewhat too heavy for the general reader, burthened as it is by the nature of the subject and the measure employed, it presents frequent examples of the rich fancy of the Poet, and is written throughout with untiring vigour and freshness. It is a topographical register in verse, containing descriptions of the several parts of England, interspersed with episodes concerning the Roman Conquest, the coming of the Saxons, the influx of the Danes, &c. &c., and intermixed with accounts of our Island rivers, mountains, forests, castles, &c. &c., and biographical sketches of our great men. The volume consists of thirty "songs," the first eighteen of which were illustrated by notes of the learned Selden, accompanied by maps, representing the various cities, woods, &c. by figures of men and women. The poem must be read for information rather than pleasure; to peruse it, indeed, from beginning to end would be a task almost as diflicult as the "Herculean toil" of the writer. If his knowledge is so acute and accurate as to have rendered him "an authority" among geographers and historians, his learning has not rendered his work valuable to the lovers of that less rugged lore which is studied by the heart. Some of the lesser poems of Drayton, however, are full of fire; they have a bold and lofty tone; and flow as freely as if the Poet was unconscious of the restraints which rhyme and measure imposed upon him-while the versification is exceedingly correct and harmonious. Among his "sonnets" may be found some of the most perfect in the language. Although invariably containing in each fourteen lines, he appears to have been aware that they were not formed upon the rules to which it is understood the sonnet is subjected, and gave to them the title of Ideas.

In a manuscript note on the Life of Daniel, Coleridge says, "A noble epitaph, more sweet and rhythmetical than Jonson commonly is, and more robust and dignified than Quarles."