To His Valentine

A poem by Michael Drayton

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

But lo, in happy How'r,
The place wherein she lyes,
In yonder climbing Tow'r,
Gilt by the glitt'ring Rise;
O IOVE! 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 euer saw
So rauishing a sight;
That it the Gods might awe,
And pow'rfully trans-pierce
The Globie Vniuerse,
Out-shooting eu'ry Light.

My Lips Ile softly lay
Vpon her heau'nly Cheeke,
Dy'd like the dawning Day,
As polish'd Iuorie 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 loued 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 Doue,
Though VENVS Birds they be,
Yet are they not for Loue
So absolute as we:
For Reason vs doth moue;
They but by billing woo:
Then try what we can doo,
To whom each sense is free.

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

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

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

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