FROM
I d e a.
by Michael Drayton
XXXV.
To Miracle
SOME, misbelieving and profane in love,
When I do speak of miracles by thee,
May say, that thou art flatterèd by me,
Who only write my skill in verse to prove.
See miracles, ye unbelieving, see,
A dumb-born Muse made to express the mind,
A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,
One by thy name, the other touching thee ;
Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine,
And mine ears deaf by thy fame healèd be,
My vices cured by virtues sprung from thee,
My hopes revived, which long in grave had lien,
All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me
Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.
|
Michael Drayton
