Unhappy is the man for evermair That tills the sand and sawis in the air; But twice unhappier is he, I lairn, That feidis in his hairt a mad desire, And follows on a woman throw the fire, Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn. Joshua Sylvester. 1563-1618 115. Ubique WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should shine on you like to the Sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done. Wheresoe'er I am,--below, or else above you-- Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 116. To His Coy Love 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 served? Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starved? Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branched, Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanched; 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 my heart alone, I cannot live without thee! Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 117. 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. Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 118. 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.