Michael Drayton Quotes

With much we surfeit; plenty makes us poor.

All transitory titles I detest; a virtuous life I mean to boast alone. Our birth's our sires'; our virtues be our own.

Better sit still, than rise to meet the devil.

It is your virtue, being men, to try; And it is ours, by virtue to deny.

Thus when we fondly flatter our desires, Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.

So in all humours sportively I range; My muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain.

When Time shall turne those Amber Lockes to Gray.

Must, bid the Morn awake! Sad Winter now declines, Each bird doth choose a mate; This day's Saint Valentine's. For that good bishop's sake Get up and let us see What beauty it shall be That Fortune us assigns.

WhenTime shall turn those amber locks to grey, My verse again shall gild and make them gay.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.

When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life, thou might'st him yet recover

Care draws on care, woe comforts woe again, Sorrow breeds sorrow, on grief brings forth twain.

The Falcon and the Dove sit there together, And th 'one of them doth prune the others feather.

The mind is free, whate'er afflict the man, A King's a King, do Fortune what she can.

Here when the labouring fish does at the foot arrive, And finds that by his strength but vainly he doth strive; His tail takes in his teeth, and bending like a bow, That's to the compass drawn, aloft himself doth throw: Then springing at his height, as doth a little wand, That, bended end to end, and flerted from the hand, Far off itself doth cast. so does the salmon vaut. And if at first he fail, his second sommersault He instantly assays and from his nimble ring, Still yarking never leaves, Until himself he fling Above the streamful top of the surrounded heap.

O blessed bounty, giving ail content! The only fautress of all noble arts That lend'st success to every good intent. A grace that rests in the most godlike hearts, By heav'n to none but happy souls infus'd Pity it is, that e'er thou wast abus'd.