Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, UPON THE THREE SONNES OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD, DROWNED IN HUMBER, by MICHAEL DRAYTON


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

UPON THE THREE SONNES OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD, DROWNED IN HUMBER, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Light sonnets hence, and to loose lovers flie
Last Line: Their fatall losse, in their sad aniverse.
Subject(s): Drowning; Sons


Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Lovers flie,
And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie
On those three SHEFFIELDS, over-whelm'd with waves,
Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craves;
A thing so full of pitty as this was,
Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.
Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,
Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:
But fate did this, to let the world to knowe,
That sorrowes which from common causes growe,
Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,
But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.
Some tender hearted man, as I, may spend
Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.
Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;
Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.
Cares that have us'd the hearts of men to tuch
So oft, and deepely, will not now be such;
Who'll care for losse of maintenance, or place,
Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;
Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,
When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost,
Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose
Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:
Nay, it is feard that this in time may breed
Hard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;
That in respect of this great losse of theirs,
Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.
Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,
That every man doth take them to be his,
And as a plague which had beginning there,
So catching is, and raigning every where,
That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,
As those the most familiarly that knew them;
Children with this disaster are wext sage,
And like to men that strucken are in age;
Talke what it is, three children at one time
Thus to have drown'd, and in their very prime;
Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,
That then olde folke, they better can it tell.
Invention, oft that Passion us'd to faine,
In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,
To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,
For that this Subject doth so farre exceed
All forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shall
Happily thinke to grace it selfe withall,
Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowes
Grace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,
For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,
To shewe it selfe the utmost it could bee:
Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,
The utmost teares that sorrowe had to drawe,
All future times hath utterly prevented
Of a more losse, or more to be lamented.
Whilst in faire youth they lively flourish'd here,
To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:
But being dead, now every one doth take
Them for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:
As for their owne begot, as they pretended
Hope in the issue, which should have discended
From them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,
But those of us, that shall be borne to morrowe
Still shall lament them, and when time shall count,
To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,
They from their death shall duly reckon so,
As from the Deluge, former us'd to doe.
O cruell Humber guilty of their gore,
I now beleeve more then I did before
The Brittish Story, whence thy name begun
Of Kingly Humber, an invading Hun,
By thee devoured, for't is likely thou
With bloud wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.
The Ouse, the Done, and thou farre clearer Trent,
To drowne these SHEFFIELDS as you gave consent,
Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,
Which have your waters basely thus abus'd.
The groveling Boore yee hinder not to goe,
And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro,
The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,
Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.
But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,
On those deafe waters to so little end,
And up to starry heaven doe I not looke,
In which, as in an everlasting booke,
Our ends are written. O let times rehearse
Their fatall losse, in their sad Aniverse.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net