Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ELEGY: OF HIS LADIES NOT COMING TO LONDON, by MICHAEL DRAYTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ELEGY: OF HIS LADIES NOT COMING TO LONDON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: That ten-years-travel'd greek return'd from sea
Last Line: So would I not have you but come away.
Subject(s): Absence; London; Separation; Isolation


That ten-yeares-travell'd Greeke return'd from Sea
Ne'r joyd so much to see his Ithaca,
As I should you, who are alone to me,
More then wide Greece could to that wanderer be.
The winter windes still Easterly doe keepe,
And with keene Frosts have chained up the deepe;
The Sunne's to us a niggard of his Rayes,
But revelleth with our Antipodes;
And seldome to us when he shewes his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed.
In those bleake mountaines can you live where snowe
Maketh the vales up to the hilles to growe;
Whereas mens breathes doe instantly congeale,
And attom'd mists turne instantly to hayle;
Belike you thinke, from this more temperate cost,
My sighes may have the power to thawe the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,
Yet not so swift, as you come slowly hither.
How many a time, hath Phebe from her wayne,
With Phoebus fires fill'd up her hornes againe;
Shee through her Orbe, still on her course doth range,
But you keepe yours still, nor for me will change.
The Sunne that mounted the sterne Lions back,
Shall with the Fishes shortly dive the Brack,
But still you keepe your station, which confines
You, nor regard him travelling the signes.
Those ships which when you went, put out to Sea,
Both to our Groenland, and Virginia,
Are now return'd, and Custom'd have their fraught,
Yet you arrive not, nor returne me ought.
The Thames was not so frozen yet this yeare,
As is my bosome, with the chilly feare
Of your not comming, which on me doth light,
As on those Climes, where halfe the world is night.
Of every tedious houre you have made two,
All this long Winter here, by missing you:
Minutes are monthes, and when the houre is past,
A yeare is ended since the Clocke strooke last,
When your remembrance puts me on the Racke,
And I should Swound to see an Almanacke,
To reade what silent weekes away are slid,
Since the dire Fates you from my sight have hid.
I hate him who the first Devisor was
Of this same foolish thing, the Hower-glasse,
And of the Watch, whose dribbling sands and Wheele,
With their slow stroakes, make mee too much to feele
Your slackenesse hither. O how I doe ban,
Him that these Dialls against walles began,
Whose Snayly motion of the mooving hand,
(Although it goe) yet seeme to me to stand;
As though at Adam it had first set out,
And had been stealing all this while about,
And when it backe to the first point should come,
It shall be then just at the generall Doome.
The Seas into themselves retract their flowes,
The changing Winde from every quarter blowes,
Declining Winter in the Spring doth call,
The Starrs rise to us, as from us they fall;
Those Birdes we see, that leave us in the Prime,
Againe in Autumne re-salute our Clime.
Sure, either Nature you from kinde hath made,
Or you delight else to be Retrograde.
But I perceive by your attractive powers,
Like an Inchantresse you have charm'd the howers
Into short minutes, and have drawne them back,
So that of us at London, you doe lack
Almost a yeare. The Spring is scarse begonne
There where you live, and Autumne almost done
With us more Eastward. Surely you devise,
By your strong Magicke, that the Sunne shall rise
Where now it setts, and that in some few yeares
You'l alter quite the Motion of the Spheares.
Yes, and you meane, I shall complaine my love
To gravell'd Walkes, or to a stupid Grove,
Now your companions; and that you the while
(As you are cruell_ will sit by and smile,
To make me write to these, while Passers by
Sleightly looke in your lovely face, where I
See Beauties heaven, whilst silly blockheads, they
Like laden Asses, plod upon their way,
And wonder not, as you should point a Clowne
Up to the Guards, or Ariadnes Crowne;
Of Constellations, and his dulnesse tell,
Hee'd thinke your words were certainly a Spell;
Or him some peice from Creet, or Marcus show,
In all his life which till that time ne'r saw
Painting: except in Alehouse or old Hall
Done by some Druzzler, of the Prodigall.
Nay doe, stay still, whilst time away shall steale
Your youth, and beautie, and your selfe conceale
From me I pray you, you have now inur'd
Me to your absence, and I have endur'd
Your want this long, whilst I have starved bine
For your short Letters, as you helde it sinne
To write to me, that to appease my woe,
I reade ore those, you writ a yeare agoe,
Which are to me, as though they had bin made,
Long time before the first Olympiad.
For thankes and curt'sies sell your presence then
To tatling Women, and to things like men,
And be more foolish then the Indians are
For Bells, for Knives, for Glasses, and such ware,
That sell their Pearle and Gold, but here I stay,
So would I not have you but come away.





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