Poem by Michael Drayton

Sonnet 49. Thou Leaden Brain

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 serv'd,
Whose stomach unto gall hath turn'd thy food,
Whose senses, like poor prisoners, hunger-starv'd,
Whose grief hath parch'd thy body, dried thy blood,
Thou which hast scorned life and hated death,
And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry,
Thou which hast bann'd thy thoughts and curs'd 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.

1. Sonnet 37. Dear, why should You Command Me to My Rest
2. Sonnet 18. To this our World
3. Sonnet 57. You Best Discern'd of my Mind's Inward Eyes
4. Sonnet 48. Cupid, I Hate thee
5. Sonnet 14. If He From Heav'n

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