FROM

I d e a.

by Michael Drayton


XLIX.

THOU leaden brain, which censur'st what I write,
And say'st, my lines be dull and do not move,
I marvel not thou feel'st not my delight,
Which never felt'st my fiery touch of love ;
But thou, whose pen hath like a pack-horse served,
Whose stomach unto gall hath turned thy food,
Whose senses, like poor prisoners, hunger-starved,
Whose grief hath parched thy body, dried thy blood,
Thou which hast scornèd life and hated death,
And in a moment mad, sober, glad and sorry,
Thou which hast banned thy thoughts and cursed thy breath
With thousand plagues, more than in Purgatory ;
    Thou, thus whose spirit Love in his fire refines,
    Come thou and read, admire, applaud my lines.





Source:
Drayton, Michael. Idea.
Daniel's Delia and Drayton's Idea. Arundell Esdaile, Ed.
London: Chatto and Windus, 1908. 116.



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