TO HIS VALENTINE by MICHAEL DRAYTON

Muse, bid the Morne awake,
Sad Winter now declines,
Each Bird doth chuse a Make,
This day's Saint VALENTINES;
For that good Bishops sake
Get up, and let us see,
What Beautie it shall bee,
That Fortune us assignes.

But lo, in happy How'r,
The place wherein she lyes,
In yonder climbing Tow'r,
Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;
O Jove! that in a Show'r,
As once that Thund'rer did,
When he in drops lay hid,
That I could her surprize.

Her Canopie Ile draw,
With spangled Plumes bedight,
No Mortall ever saw
So ravishing a sight;
That it the Gods might awe,
And pow'rfully trans-pierce
The Globie Universe,
Out-shooting ev'ry Light.

My Lips Ile softly lay
Upon her heav'nly Cheeke,
Dy'd like the dawning Day,
As polish'd Ivorie sleeke:
And in her Eare Ile say;
O, thou bright Morning-Starre,
'Tis I that come so farre,
My Valentine to seeke.

Each little Bird, this Tyde,
Doth chuse her loved Pheere,
Which constantly abide
In Wedlock all the yeere,
As Nature is their Guide:
So may we two be true,
This yeere, nor change for new,
As Turtles coupled were.

The Sparrow, Swan, the Dove,
Though VENUS Birds they be,
Yet are they not for Love
So absolute as we:
For Reason us doth move;
They but by billing woo:
Then try what we can doo,
To whom each sense is free.

Which we have more then they,
By livelyer Organs sway'd,
Our Appetite each way
More by our Sense obay'd:
Our Passions to display,
This Season us doth fit;
Then let us follow it,
As Nature us doth lead.

One Kisse in two let's breake,
Confounded with the touch,
But halfe words let us speake,
Our Lip's imploy'd so much;
Untill we both grow weake,
With sweetnesse of thy breath;
O smother me to death:
Long let our Joyes be such.

Let's laugh at them that chuse
Their Valentines by lot,
To weare their Names that use,
Whom idly they have got:
Such poore choise we refuse,
Saint VALENTINE befriend;
We thus this Morne may spend,
Else Muse, awake her not.

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