HERE then I cannot choose but bitterly exclaime Against those fools that all antiquity defame,
Because they have found out, some credulous ages laid Slight fictions with the truth, whilst truth or rumour staid; And that one forward time (perceiving the neglect
A former of her had) to purchase her respect,
With toys then trimm'd her up, the drowsy world t' allure, And lent her what it thought might appetite procure
To man, whose mind doth still varietie pursue;
And therefore to those things whose grounds were very true,
Though naked yet and bare (not having to content
The wayward curious ear), gave fictive ornament;
And fitter thought, the truth they should in question call,
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 difficult 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."
HERE then I cannot choose but bitterly exclaime Against those fools that all antiquity defame,
Because they have found out, some credulous ages laid Slight fictions with the truth, whilst truth or rumour staid ; And that one forward time (perceiving the neglect
A former of her had) to purchase her respect,
With toys then trimm'd her up, the drowsy world t' allure, And lent her what it thought might appetite procure
To man, whose mind doth still varietie pursue;
And therefore to those things whose grounds were very true,
Though naked yet and bare (not having to content
The wayward curious ear), gave fictive ornament;
And fitter thought, the truth they should in question call,
Than coldly sparing that, the truth should go and all.
And surely I suppose, that which this froward time
Doth scandalize her with to be her heinous crime,
That her most preserv'd: for, still where wit hath found
A thing most clearly true, it made that fiction's ground:
Which she suppos'd might give sure colour to them both :
From which, as from a root, this wondred error grow'th,
At which our critics gird, whose judgments are so strict,
And he the bravest man who most can contradict
That which decrepit age (which forced is to leane
Upon tradition) tells; esteeming it so meane,
As they it quite reject, and for some trifling thing
(Which time hath pinn'd to truth) they all away will fling.
These men (for all the world) like our precisians be,
Who for some crosse or saint they in the window see
Will pluck down all the church: soul-blinded sots that creepe
In dirt, and never saw the wonders of the deepe:
Therefore (in my conceit) most rightly serv'd are they
That to the Roman trust (on his report that stay)
Our truth from him to learn, as ignorant of ours
As we were then of his; except 'twere of his powers:
Who our wise Druyds here unmercifully slew;
Like whom, great Nature's depths no men yet ever knew,
Nor with such dauntless spirits were ever yet inspir'd;
Who at their proud arrive th' ambitious Romans fir'd,
When first they heard them preach the soul's immortal state;
And even in Rome's despite, and in contempt of fate,
Grasp'd hands with horrid death: which out of hate and pride
They slew, who through the world were reverenced beside.
To understand our state, no marvail then though we
Should so to Cæsar seek, in his reports to see
What anciently we were; when in our infant war,
Unskilful of our tongue but by interpreter,
He nothing had of ours which our great bards did sing,
Except some few poor words; and those again to bring
Unto the Latin sounds, and easiness they us'd,
By their most filed speech, our British most abus'd.
But of our former state, beginning, our descent,
The wars we had at home, the conquests where we went,
He never understood. And though the Romans here
So noble trophies left, as very worthy were
A people great as they, yet did they ours neglect,
Long rear'd ere they arriv'd.
SINCE there's no help, come, let us kisse 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 myselfe can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancell all our vowes;
And when we meet at any time againe,
Be it not seen in either of our browes
That we one jot of former love retaine.
Now at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechlesse lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.
LOVE banish'd heaven, in earth was held in scorne,
Wand'ring abroad in need and beggery;
And wanting friends, though of a goddesse borne,
Yet crav'd the almes of such as passed by:
I, like a man devout and charitable,
Cloth'd the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest,
With sighes and teares still furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blest;
But this ungratefull, for my good desert,
Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steale away my heart,
And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire.
Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold,
No marvell then though charity grow cold.
As Love and I late harbour'd in one inne
With proverbs thus each other entertaine :
In love there is no lacke, thus I begin;
Faire words make fooles, replieth he againe;
Who spares to speake, doth spare to speed, (quoth I);
As well (saith he) too forward, as too slow:
Fortune assists the boldest, I reply;
A hasty man (quoth he) ne'er wanted woe:
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