Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MASTER WILLIAM BROWNE: OF THE EVIL TIME, by MICHAEL DRAYTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MASTER WILLIAM BROWNE: OF THE EVIL TIME, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dear friend, be silent and with patience see
Last Line: Hees worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.
Subject(s): Browne, William (1591-1645)


Deare friend, be silent and with patience see
What this mad times Catastrophe will be;
The worlds first Wisemen certainely mistooke
Themselves, and spoke things quite beside the booke,
And that which they have said of God, untrue,
Or else expect strange judgement to insue.
This Isle is a meere Bedlam, and therein,
We all lye raving, mad in every sinne,
And him the wisest most men use to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all;
He whom the master of all wisedome found,
For a marckt foole, and so did him propound,
The time we live in, to that passe is brought,
That only he a Censor now is thought;
And that base villaine, (not an age yet gone,)
Which a good man would not have look'd upon;
Now like a God, with divine worship follow'd,
And all his actions are accounted hollow'd.
This world of ours, thus runneth upon wheeles,
Set on the head, bolt upright with her heeles;
Which makes me thinke of what the Ethnicks told,
Th'opinion, the Pythagorists uphold,
That the immortall soule doth transmigrate;
Then I suppose by the strong power of fate,
That those which at confused Babel were,
And since that time now many a lingering yeare,
Through fools, and beasts, and lunatiques have past,
Are heere imbodyed in this age at last,
And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we still of that confusion.
For certainely there's scarse one found that now
Knowes what t'approove, or what to disallow,
All arsey varsey, nothing is it's owne,
But to our proverbe, all turnd upside downe;
To doe in time, is to doe out of season,
And that speeds best, thats done the farth'st from reason,
Hee's high'st that's low'st, hee's surest in that's out,
He hits the next way that goes farth'st about,
He getteth up unlike to rise at all,
He slips to ground as much unlike to fall;
Which doth inforce me partly to prefer,
The opinion of that mad Philosopher,
Who taught, that those all-framing powers above,
(As tis suppos'd) made man not out of love
To him at all, but only as a thing,
To make them sport with, which they use to bring
As men doe munkeys, puppets, and such tooles
Of laughter: so men are but the Gods fooles.
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,
As wherefore no man knowes, God scarcely why;
The vertuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull Sot to raise himselfe upon;
He who ne're thing yet worthy man durst doe,
Never durst looke upon his countreys foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men: or higher might him set
Then the base begger (rightly if compar'd;)
This Drone yet never brave attempt that dar'd,
Yet dares be knighted, and from thence dares grow
To any title Empire can bestow;
For this beleeve, that Impudence is now
A Cardinall vertue, and men it allow
Reverence, nay more, men study and invent
New wayes, nay, glory to be impudent.
Into the clouds the Devill lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine tooke to make him purge and cast;
Which in short time began to worke so fast,
That he fell too't, and from his backeside flew,
A rout of rascall, a rude ribauld crew
Of base Plebeians, which no sooner light
Upon the earth, but with a suddaine flight,
They spread this Ile, and as Deucalion once
Over his shoulder backe, by throwing stones
They became men, even so these beasts became,
Owners of titles from an obscure name.
He that by riot, of a mighty rent,
Hath his late goodly Patrimony spent,
And into base and wilfull beggery run
This man as he some glorious act had done,
With some great pension, or rich guift releev'd,
When he that hath by industry atchiev'd
Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac'd,
In the forlorne hope of the times is plac'd,
As though that God had carelessly left all
That being hath on this terrestiall ball,
To fortunes guiding, nor would have to doe
With man, nor ought that doth belong him to,
Or at the least God having given more
Power to the Devill, then he did of yore,
Over this world: the feind as he doth hate
The vertuous man; maligning his estate,
All noble things, and would have by his will,
To be damn'd with him, using all his skill,
By his blacke hellish ministers to vexe
All worthy men, and strangely to perplexe
Their constancie, there by them so to fright,
That they should yeeld them wholely to his might.
But of these things I vainely doe but tell,
Where hell is heaven, and heav'n is now turn'd hell;
Where that which lately blasphemy hath bin,
Now godlinesse, much lesse accounted sin;
And a long while I greatly mervail'd why
Buffoons and Bawdes should hourely multiply,
Till that of late I construed it, that they
To present thrift had got the perfect way,
When I concluded by their odious crimes,
It was for us no thriving in these times.
As men oft laugh at little Babes, when they
Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the suddaine strucken sad,
As in their fancie some strange formes they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers showe,
Angry at our capacities so slowe,
That by their countenance we no sooner learne
To see the wonder which they so discerne:
So the celestiall powers doe sit and smile
At innocent and vertuous men the while,
They stand amazed at the world ore-gone,
So farre beyond imagination,
With slavish basenesse, that they silent sit
Pointing like children in describing it.
Then noble friend the next way to controule
These worldly crosses, is to arme thy soule
With constant patience: and with thoughts as high
As these belowe, and poore, winged to flye
To that exalted stand, whether yet they
Are got with paine, that sit out of the way
Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none
But such as thinke their black damnation
To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when
They are advanc'd, those fewe poore honest men
That yet are living, into search doe runne
To finde what mischiefe they have lately done,
Which so preferres them; say thou he doth rise,
That maketh vertue his chiefe excercise.
And in this base world come what ever shall,
Hees worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.





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