Michael Drayton

E. Sc. Gent., "To M. Michael Drayton" Drayton, England's Heroicall Epistles (1597) sig. A3.

How can he write that broken hath his pen,
Hath rent his paper, throwne his Inke away,
Detests the world, and company of men,
Because they grow more hateful day by day.
Yet with these broken reliques, mated minde,
And what a justly-greeved-thought can say:
I give the world to know, I nere could finde,
A worke more like to live a longer day.
Goe verse, an object for the proudest eye,
Disdaine those which disdaine to reade thee over,
Tell them they know not how they should descry,
The secret passions of a witty lover.
For they are such as none but those shall know,
Whom beauty schooles to hold the blind Boyes bow.

Once I had vowed (O who can all vowes keepe)
Hence-forth to smother my unlucky Muse;
Yet for thy sake she started out of sleepe,
Yet now she dyes. Then doe as kinsfolke use;
Close up the eyes of my now-dying-stile,
As I have op'ned thy sweet babes ere-while.