Michael Drayton.

126   To His Coy Love

1563-1631

I PRAY thee, leave, love me no more,
    Call home the heart you gave me!
I but in vain that saint adore
    That can but will not save me.
These poor half-kisses kill me quite—
Was ever man thus servàed?
Amidst an ocean of delight
    For pleasure to be starvàed?

Show me no more those snowy breasts
    With azure riverets branchàed,
Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
    Yet is my thirst not stanchàed;
O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!
    By me thou art prevented:
’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,
    But thus in Heaven tormented.

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
    Nor thy life’s comfort call me,
O these are but too powerful charms,
    And do but more enthral me!
      But see how patient I am grown
        In all this coil about thee:
Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,
    I cannot live without thee!

127   The Parting

SINCE there’s no help, come let us kiss and part—
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
    —Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
    From death to life thou might’st him yet recover.

128   Sirena

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 turnàed,
He, as it had been night,
   In clouds hath mournàed
               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 ...