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Title: To My Most Dearly-loved Friend Henery Reynolds Esquire, of Poets & Poesy
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
My dearly loved friend how oft have we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well-chosen place used to retire;
And there with moderate meat, and wine, and fire,
Have past the hours contentedly with chat,
Now talk of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our own verses 'twixt ourselves, if not
Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who lived long ago to hear,
As well as of those, of these latter times,
Who have enriched our language with their rhymes,
And in succession, how still up they grew,
Which is the subject, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle, (you must know that) I,
Was still inclin'd to noble Poesy,
And when that once Pueriles I had read,
And newly had my Cato construed,
In my small self I greatly marvell'd then,
Amongst all other, what strange kind of men
These Poets were; And pleased with the name,
To my mild Tutor merrily I came,
(For I was then a proper goodly page,
Much like a Pigmy, scarce ten years of age)
Clasping my slender arms about his thigh.
O my dear master! cannot you (quoth I)
Make me a Poet, do it if you can,
And you shall see, I'll quickly be a man,
Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,
If you'll not play the wag, but I may see
You ply your learning, I will shortly read
Some Poets to you; Phoebus be my speed,
Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,
And first read to me honest Mantuan,
Then Virgils Eclogues, being entred thus,
Me thought I straight had mounted Pegasus,
And in his full Career could make him stop,
And bound upon Parnassus by-cliffed top.
I scorned your ballet then though it were done
And had for Finis, William Elderton.
But soft, in sporting with this childish jest,
I from my subject haue too long digressed,
Then to the matter that we took in hand,
Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand.
Then noble Chaucer, in those former times,
The first enrich'd our English with his ryhmes,
And was the first of ours, that ever brake,
Into the Muses treasure, and first spake
In weighty numbers, delving in the Mine
Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine,
And coin for current, and as much as then
The English language could express to men,
He made it do; and by his wondrous skill,
Gave us much light from his abundant quill.
And honest Gower, who in respect of him,
Had only sipt at Aganippas brim,
And though in years this last was him before,
Yet fell he far short of the others store.
When after those, four ages very near,
They with the Muses which conuersed, were
That Princely Surrey, early in the time
Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime
Of Englands noble youth; with him there came
Wyat; with reverence whom we still do name
Amongst our Poets, Brian had a share
With the two former, which accounted are
That times best makers, and the authors were
Of those small poems, which the title bear,
Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit
On many dainty passages of wit.
Gascoine and Churchyard after them again
In the beginning of Eliza's rain,
Accounted were great Meterers many a day,
But not inspired with brave fire, had they
Liv'd but a little longer, they had seen,
Their works before them to have buried been.
Grave moral Spencer after these came on
Then whom I am persuaded there was none
Since the blind Bard his Iliads up did make,
Fitter a task like that to undertake,
To set down boldly, bravely to invent,
In all high knowledge, surely excellent.
The noble Sidney with this last arose,
That Heroe for numbers, and for Prose.
That throughly pac'd our language as to show,
The plenteous English hand in hand might go
With Greek or Latine, and did first reduce
Our tongue from Lillies writing then in use;
Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,
Playing with words, and idle Similies,
As th' English, Apes and very Zanies be,
Of every thing, that they do hear and see,
So imitating his ridiculous tricks,
They spake and writ, all like mere lunatics.
Then Warner though his lines were not so trim'd,
Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'd
And neatly jointed, but the Critic may
Easily reproove him, yet thus let me say;
For my old friend, some passages there be
In him, which I protest have taken me,
With almost wonder, so fine, clear, and new
As yet they haue bin equalled by few.
Neat Marlow bathed in the Thespian springs
Had in him those brave translunary things,
That the first Poets had, his raptures were,
All air, and fire, which made his verses clear,
For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a Poets brain.
And surely Nashe, though he a Proser were
A branch of Lawrell yet deserves to bear,
Sharply Satyic was he, and that way
He went, since that his being, to this day
Few haue attempted, and I surely think
Those words shall hardly be set down with ink;
Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,
Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,
Shakespeare, thou hadst as smooth a Comic vain,
Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain,
As strong conception, and as Clear a rage,
As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.
Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I
May spake of, but to censure do deny,
Onely have heard some wisemen him rehearse,
To be too much Historian in verse;
His ryhmes were smooth, his meters well did close
But yet his maner better fitted prose:
Next these, learn'd Johnson, in this List I bring,
Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring,
Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
And long was Lord here of the Theater,
Who in opinion made our learn'st to stick,
Whether in Poems rightly dramatic,
Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
Should bear the Buskin, or the Sock away.
Others again here lived in my daes,
That have of us deserved no less praise
For their translations, then the daintiest wit
That on Parnassus thinks, he highst doth sit,
And for a chair may mongst the Muses call,
As the most curious maker of them all;
As reverent Chapman, who hath brought to us,
Musaeus, Homer and Hesiodus
Out of the Greek; and by his skill hath reared
Them to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,
That were those Poets at this day alive,
To see their books thus with us to survive,
They would think, hauing neglected them so long,
They had bin written in the English tongue.
And Silvester who from the French more weak,
Made Bartas of his six days labour speak
In natural English, who, had he there stayed,
He had done well, and never had bewray'd
His own invention, to have bin so poor
Who still wrote less, in striving to write more.
Then dainty Sands that hath to English done,
Smooth sliding Ovid, and hath made him run
With so much sweetness and unusuall grace,
As though the neatness of the English pace,
Should tell the Jetting Lattin that it came
But slowly after, as though stiff and lame.
So Scotland sent us hither, for our own
That man, whose name I ever would have known,
To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
My Alexander, to whom in his right,
I want extremely, yet in speaking thus
I do but show the love, that was twixt us,
And not his numbers which were brave and high,
So like his mind, was his clear Poesy,
And my dear Drummond to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud I was to know,
His poesy, for which two worthy men,
I Menstry still shall love, and Hawthorn-den.
Then the two Beamounts and my Brown arose,
My dear companions whom I freely chose
My bosom friends; and in their several ways,
Rightly born Poets, and in these last days,
Men of much note, and no less nobler parts,
Such as have freely told to me their hearts,
As I have mine to them; but if you shall
Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only myself, to these few men do tie,
Whose works oft printed, set on every post,
To public censure subject have bin most;
For such whose poems, be they ne'er so rare,
In private chambers, that encloistered are,
And by transcription daintyly must go;
As though the world unworthy were to know,
Their rich composures, let those men that keep
These wonderous relics in their judgement deep;
And cry them up so, let such Pieces be
Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
I pass not for them: nor do mean to run,
In quest of these, that them applause have won,
Upon our Stages in these latter days,
That are so many, let them have their bays
That do deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those public circuits, let them freely chant
Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue
And so my dear friend, for this time adieu.
[The end]
Michael Drayton's Poem: To My Most Dearly-loved Friend Henery Reynolds Esquire, of Poets & Poesy
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