To The New Yeere

A poem by Michael Drayton

Rich Statue, double-faced,
With Marble Temples graced,
To rayse thy God-head hyer,
In flames where Altars shining,
Before thy Priests diuining,
Doe od'rous Fumes expire.

Great IANVS, I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian treasure,
Doe seriously pursue;
To th' passed yeere returning,
As though the old adiourning,
Yet bringing in the new.

Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,
I haue obserued cleerely,
Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Giue something to my Goddesse,
As hath been vs'd by thee.

Giue her th' Eoan brightnesse,
Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,
That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;
The Roses of the Morning
The rising Heau'n adorning,
To mesh with flames of Hayre.

Those ceaselesse Sounds, aboue all,
Made by those Orbes that moue all,
And euer swelling there,
Wrap'd vp in Numbers flowing,
Them actually bestowing,
For Iewels at her Eare.

O Rapture great and holy,
Doe thou transport me wholly,
So well her forme to vary,
That I aloft may beare her,
Whereas I will insphere her,
In Regions high and starry.

And in my choise Composures,
The soft and easie Closures,
So amorously shall meet;
That euery liuely Ceasure
Shall tread a perfect Measure
Set on so equall feet.

That Spray to fame so fertle,
The Louer-crowning Mirtle,
In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,
Within whose shades are dwelling
Those Beauties most excelling,
Inthron'd vpon her Browes.

Those Paralels so euen,
Drawne on the face of Heauen,
That curious Art supposes,
Direct those Gems, whose cleerenesse
Farre off amaze by neerenesse,
Each Globe such fire incloses.

Her Bosome full of Blisses,
By Nature made for Kisses,
So pure and wond'rous cleere,
Whereas a thousand Graces
Behold their louely Faces,
As they are bathing there.

O, thou selfe-little blindnesse,
The kindnesse of vnkindnesse,
Yet one of those diuine;
Thy Brands to me were leuer,
Thy Fascia, and thy Quiuer,
And thou this Quill of mine.

This Heart so freshly bleeding,
Vpon it owne selfe feeding,
Whose woundes still dropping be;
O Loue, thy selfe confounding,
Her coldnesse so abounding,
And yet such heat in me.

Yet if I be inspired,
Ile leaue thee so admired,
To all that shall succeed,
That were they more then many,
'Mongst all, there is not any,
That Time so oft shall read.

Nor Adamant ingraued,
That hath been choisely 'st saued,
IDEA'S Name out-weares;
So large a Dower as this is,
The greatest often misses,
The Diadem that beares.

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