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Title: His Defence Against The Idle Critic
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
The Ryme nor mars, nor makes,
Nor addeth it, nor takes,
From that which we propose;
Things imaginary
Do so strangely vary,
That quickly we them lose.
And what's quickly begot,
As soone again is not,
This do I truely know:
Yea, and what's born with pain,
That Sense doth long'st retain,
Gone with a greater Flow.
Yet this Critic so stern,
But whom, none must discern,
Nor perfectly have seeing,
Strangely lays about him,
As nothing without him
Were worthy of being.
That I myself betray
To that most public way,
Where the Worlds old Bawd,
Custom, that doth humor,
And by idle rumor,
Her Dotages applaud.
That whilst he still prefers
Those that be wholly hers,
Madness and Ignorance,
I creep behind the Time,
From spertling with their Crime,
And glad too with my Chance.
O wretched World the while,
When the evil most vile,
Beareth the fairest face,
And inconstant lightness,
With a scornfull slightness,
The best Things doth disgrace.
Whilst this strange knowing Beast,
Man, of himself the least,
His Envy declaring,
Makes Virtue to descend,
Her title to defend,
Against him, much preparing.
Yet these me not delude,
Nor from my place extrude,
By their resolved Hate;
Their vileness that do know;
Which to my selfe I show,
To keep above my Fate.
[The end]
Michael Drayton's poem: His Defence Against The Idle Critic
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