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Sonnet XXXIV: Marvel Not, Love



Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,
Ravish'd a world beyond the farthest thought,
And knowing more than ever hath been taught,
That I am only starv'd in my desire.
Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,
Aiming at things exceeding all perfection,
To Wisdom's self to minister correction,
That I am only starv'd in my desire.
Marvel not, Love, though I thy power admire,
Though my conceit I further seem to bend
Than possibly invention can extend,
And yet am only starv'd in my desire.
If thou wilt wonder, here's the wonder, Love:
That this to me doth yet no wonder prove.

Poems by Michael Drayton

Sonnet XXXVI: Thou Purblind Boy



Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack
To wound her heart, whose eyes have wounded me,
And suffer'd her to glory in my wrack,
Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee:
By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears,
By thy fair mother's unavoided power,
By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears
When she was rapt to the infernal bower,
By thine own loved Psyche, by the fires
Spent on thine alters flaming up to heav'n,
By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires,
By all the wounds that ever thou hast giv'n:
I conjure thee by all that I have nam'd
To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damn'd.

Poems by Michael Drayton

Sonnet XXXVIII: Sitting Alone, Love



Sitting alone, Love bids me go and write;
Reason plucks back, commanding me to stay,
Boasting that she doth still direct the way,
Or else Love were unable to endite.
Love, growing angry, vexed at the spleen
And scorning Reason's maimed argument,
Straight taxeth Reason, wanting to invent,
Where she with Love conversing hath not been.
Reason, reproached with this coy disdain,
Despiteth Love, and laugheth at her folly;
And Love, condemning Reason's reason wholly,
Thought it in weight too light by many'a grain.
Reason, put back, doth out of sight remove,
And Love alone picks reason out of love.

Poems by Michael Drayton

To His Valentine



Muse, bid the morn awake,
Sad winter now declines,
Each bird doth choose a mate,
This day's St. Valentine's;
For that good bishop's sake
Get up, and let us see,
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 glittering 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....

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Poems by Michael Drayton

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