Poem by Michael Drayton

Sonnet 47. In Pride of Wit

In pride of wit when high desire of fame
Gave life and courage to my laboring pen,
And first the sound and virtue of my name
Won grace and credit in the ears of men,
With those the thronged theatres that press
I in the circuit for the laurel strove,
Where the full praise, I freely must confess,
In heat of blood a modest mind might move,
With shouts and claps at every little pause
When the proud round on every side hath rung,
Sadly I sit, unmov'd with the applause,
As though to me it nothing did belong.
    No public glory vainly I pursue; 
    All that I seek is to eternize you.

1. Sonnet 23. Love, Banish'd Heav'n
2. Roc
3. Sonnet 14. If He From Heav'n
4. The Trent (NEAR to the silver Trent)
5. Sonnet 27. Is not Love

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