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From "The Barons Warres," ed. 1619. Canto VI., stanzas 55-61.

The Queen and Mortimer at Nottingham

Castle.

HE Night wax'd old (not dreaming of these things)
And to her Chamber is the Queene withdrawne,

To whom a choise Musician playes and sings

Whilst she sat under an Estate of Lawne,

In Night-Attyre, more God-like glittering

Than any Eye had seene the chearefull Dawne,
Leaning upon her most-lov'd Mortimer,

Whose Voice more then the Musike pleas'd her Eare.

Where her faire Brests at libertie were let,
Whose Violet Veines in branched Riverets flow,
And Venus Swans and milkie Doves were set
Upon those swelling Mounts of driven Snow;
Whereon whilst Love to sport himselfe doth get,
He lost his Way nor backe againe could goe,

But with those Bankes of Beautie set about
He wand'red still, yet never could get out.

Her loose Hayre look'd like Gold (O word too base;
Nay, more then sinne but so to name her Hayre)
Declining as to kisse her fayrer Face;

No word is fayre ynough for thing so fayre,

Nor never was there Epithite could grace
That by much praysing which we much impayre;
And where the Pen fayles Pensils cannot show it,
Only the Soul may be suppos'd to know it.

She layd her fingers on his Manly Cheeke,
The Gods pure Scepters and the Darts of Love,
That with their touch might make a Tygre meeke,

Or might great Atlas from his Seat remove;
So white, so soft, so delicate, so sleeke,

As she had worne a Lilly for a Glove;

As might beget Life where was never none
And put a Spirit into the hardest stone.

The Fire of precious Wood, the Light Perfume,
Which left a sweetnesse on each thing it shone,

As ev'ry thing did to it selfe assume

The Sent from them and made the same their owne;
So that the painted Flowres within the Roome
Were sweet, as if they naturally had growne;

The Light gave Colours, which upon them fell,
And to the Colours the Perfume gave smell.

When on those sundry Pictures they devise

And from one Peece they to another runne,

Commend that Face, that Arme, that Hand, those Eyes,
Shew how that Bird, how well that Flowre was done,
How this part shadow'd, and how that did rise,
This Top was clouded, how that Trayle was spunne,
The Land-skip, Mixture and Delineatings,

And in that Art a thousand curious Things.

Looking upon proud Phaeton wrap'd in Fire,
The gentle Queene did much bewayle his Fall,
But Mortimer commended his Desire

To lose one poore Life or to governe all.

What though (quoth he) he madly did aspire

And his great Mind made him proud Fortunes Thrall? Yet, in despight when she her worst had done,

He perish'd in the Chariot of the Sunne.

From

Englands Heroicall Epistles," ed. 1619. This was the most popular work of Drayton's. Originally published in 1597. it was reprinted in 1598, 1599, 1600, and 1602. It was also included in the collections of 1605, 1608, 1615, &.

Queene Margaret to William De-La-Poole, Duke of Suffolke.

WHAT

HAT news (sweet Poole) look'st thou my Lines should tell

But like the toling of the dolefull Bell,

Bidding the Deaths-man to prepare the Grave?
Expect from me no other newes to have.

My Brest which once was Mirths imperiall Throne,
A vast and desart Wildernesse is growne,

Like that cold Region from the World remote
On whose breeme Seas the Icie Mountaines flote,
Where those poore Creatures banish'd from the Light
Doe live impris'ned in continuall Night.

No Object greets my Soules internall Eyes

But divinations of sad Tragedies;

And Care takes up her solitarie Inne

Where Youth and Joy their Court did once begin.

As in September when our Yeere resignes

The glorious Sunne to the cold Wat'rie Signes,

Which through the Clouds lookes on the Earth in scorne;

The little Bird yet to salute the Morne

Upon the naked Branches sets her foot,

The Leaves then lying on the mossie Root,

And there a silly chiripping doth keepe

As though she faine would sing, yet faine would weepe, Praysing faire Summer that too soone is gone

Or sad for Winter too fast comming on:

In this strange plight I mourne for thy depart
Because that Weeping cannot ease my Heart.

Now to our aid who stirres the neighb'ring Kings
Or who from France a puisant Armie brings?
Who moves the Norman to abet our Warre
Or brings in Burgoyne to aid Lancaster?
Who in the North our lawfull Clayme commends
To winne us Credit with our valiant Friends?
To whom shall I my secret Griefes impart ?
Whose Brest shall be the Closet of my Heart?
The ancient Heroes fame thou do'st revive,
As from all them thy selfe thou didst derive
Nature by thee both gave and taketh all,
Alone in Poole she was too prodigall;
Of so divine and rich a temper wrought
As Heav'n for thee Perfections depth had sought.
Well knew King Henry what he pleaded for
When he chose thee to be his Orator,
Whose Angell-eye by pow'rfull influence,
Doth utter more than humane Eloquence,

That if againe Jove would his Sports have try'd
He in thy shape himselfe would only hide,
Which in his love might be of greater pow'r

Then was his Nymph, his Flame, his Swan, his Show'r.

I pray thee, Poole, have care how thou do'st passc,— Never the Sea yet halfe so dang'rous was,