Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN, by MARY OXLIE First Line: I never rested on the muses bed Last Line: Mary oxlie of morpet. Alternate Author Name(s): Oxlie Of Morpet, Mary Subject(s): Drummond, William (1585-1649); Muses; Drummond Of Hawthornden, William | ||||||||
I Never rested on the Muses bed, Nor dipt my Quill in the Thessalian Fountaine, My rustick Muse was rudely fostered, And flies too low to reach the double mountaine. Then do not sparkes with your bright Suns compare, Perfection in a Woman's worke is rare; From an untroubled mind should Verses flow; My discontents makes mine too muddy show; And hoarse encumbrances of houshold care Where these remaine, the Muses ne're repaire. If thou dost extoll her Haire, Or her Ivory Forehead faire, Or those Stars whose bright reflection Thrals my heart in sweet subjection: Or when to display thou seeks The snow-mixt Roses on her Cheekes, Or those Rubies soft and sweet, Over those pretty Rows that meet. The Chian painter as asham'd, Hides his Picture so far fam'd; And the Queen he carv'd it by, With a blush her face doth dye, Since those Lines do limne a Creature That so far surpast her Feature. When thou show'st how fairest Flora Prankt with pride the banks of Ora, So thy Verse her streames doth honour, Strangers grow enamour'd on her, All the Swans that swim in Po Would their native brooks forgo, And as loathing Phoebus beames, Long to bath in cooler streames, Tree-turn'd Daphne would be seen In her Groves to flourish green, And her Boughs would gladly spare. To frame a garland for thy haire, That fairest Nymphs with finest fingers May thee crown the best of singers. But when thy Muse dissolv'd in show'rs, Wailes that peerlesse Prince of ours, Cropt by too untimely Fate, Her mourning doth exasperate Senselesse things to see thee moane, Stones do weep, and Trees do groane, Birds in aire, Fishes in flood, Beasts in field forsake their food, The Nymphs forgoing all their Bow'rs Teare their Chaplets deckt with Flow'rs; Sol himselfe with misty vapor, Hides from earth his glorious Tapor, And as mov'd to heare thee plaine Shews his griefe in show'rs of raine. Mary Oxlie of Morpet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY MOST DEARELY-LOVED FRIEND HENERY REYNOLDS ESQUIRE, OF POETS by MICHAEL DRAYTON A NICE CORRESPONDENT by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON THE DEATH OF AUTUMN by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY BETH GELERT; OR, THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND by WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER ODE TO DUTY by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE BOOK OF THE LETTER, SELECTION by ABRAHAM ABULAFIA PRAYER IN THE TRENCHES by BRENT DOW ALLINSON |
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