From The Muses' Elizium, 1630

The Description of Elizium

A paradise on earth is found,
Though far from vulgar sight,

Which with those pleasures doth abound
That it Elizium hight.

Where in delights that never fade,

The Muses lulled be,

And sit at pleasure in the shade
Of many a stately tree,

Which no rough tempest makes to reel
Nor their straight bodies bows,
Their lofty tops do never feel
The weight of winter's snows;

In groves that evermore are green,
No falling leaf is there,

But Philomel (of birds the queen)
In music spends the year.

The merle upon her myrtle perch

There to the mavis sings,

Who from the top of some curl'd birch

Those notes redoubled rings.

There daisies damask every place

Nor once their beauties lose,

That when proud Phoebus hides his face,

Themselves they scorn to close.

The pansy and the violet here,

As seeming to descend,

Both from one root, a very pair,
For sweetness yet contend,

And pointing to a pink to tell
Which bears it, it is loath

To judge it; but replies, for smell
That it excels them both.

Wherewith displeased they hang their heads
So angry soon they grow,

And from their odoriferous beds
Their sweets at it they throw.

The winter here a summer is,
No waste is made of time,
Nor doth the autumn ever miss
The blossoms of the prime.

The flower that July forth doth bring,
In April here is seen,

The primrose that puts on the spring,
In July decks each green.

The sweets for sovereignty contend,

And so abundant be,

That to the very earth they lend

And bark of every tree:

Rills rising out of every bank,

In wild meanders strain,

And playing many a wanton prank
Upon the speckled plain,

In gambols and lascivious gyres

Their time they still bestow,

Nor to their fountains none retires,

Nor on their course will go.

Those brooks with lilies bravely deckt,
So proud and wanton made,

That they their courses quite neglect
And seem as though they stayed

Fair Flora in her state to view
Which through those lilies looks,
Or as those lilies lean'd to show
Their beauties to the brooks.

That Phoebus in his lofty race,
Oft lays aside his beams.

And comes to cool his glowing face
In these delicious streams.

Oft spreading vines climb up the cleeves,
Whose ripen'd clusters there

Their liquid purple drop, which drives
A vintage through the year.

Those cleeves whose craggy sides are clad

With trees of sundry suits,

Which make continual summer glad,

Even bending with their fruits,

Some ripening, ready some to fall,
Some blossom'd, some to bloom,
Like gorgeous hangings on the wall
Of some rich princely room.

Pomegranates, lemons, citrons, so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaves in number that outgo
Nor roomth will them allow.

There in perpetual summer's shade
Apollo's prophets sit,

Among the flowers that never fade,
But flourish like their wit;

To whom the nymphs upon their lyres

Tune many a curious lay,

And with their most melodious quires
Make short the longest day.

The thrice three Virgins heavenly clear
Their trembling timbrels sound,
Whilst the three comely Graces there
Dance many a dainty round.

Decay nor age there nothing knows,
There is continual youth,

As time on plant or creatures grows,
So still their strength renew'th.

The poet's paradise this is,
To which but few can come,

The Muses' only bower of bliss,
Their dear Elizium.

Here happy souls, (their blessed bowers

Free from the rude resort

Of beastly people) spend the hours

In harmless mirth and sport.

Then on to the Elizian plains

Apollo doth invite you,

Where he provides with pastoral strains,
In nymphals to delight you.

M. DRAYTON

SONNETS

From Tottel's Songs and Sonnets, 1557

The lover's life compared to the Alps
Like unto these unmeasurable mountains
So is my painful life, the burden of ire;
For high be they, and high is my desire;
And I of tears, and they be full of fountains;
Under craggy rocks they have barren plains,
Hard thoughts in me my woful mind doth tire:
Small fruit and many leaves their tops do attire,
With small effect great trust in me remains;
The boistous winds oft their high boughs do blast,
Hot sighs in me continually be shed;

Wild beasts in them, fierce love in me is fed;
Unmovable am I, and they steadfast.

Of singing birds they have the tune and note,
And I always plaints passing through my throat.

SIR T. WYATT

The lover abused renounceth love
My love to scorn, my service to retain,
Therein, methought, you used cruelty;
Since with good will I lost my liberty
[To follow her which causeth all my pain.]
Might never woe yet cause me to refrain,
But only this, which is extremity;
To give me nought, alas, nor to agree
That, as I was, your man I might remain:
But since that thus ye list to order me,

That would have been your servant true and fast,
Displease you not, my doting time is past;
And with my loss to leave I must agree:

For as there is a certain time to rage,
So is there time such madness to assuage.

SIR T. WYATT