Sonnet 49. Thou leaden brain, which censur’st what I write

Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

[First printed in 1599 (No. 46), and in all later editions.]

THOU leaden brain, which censur’st what I write,

And sayst my lines be dull, and do not move.

I marvel not thou feelst not my Delight,

Which never felt’st my fiery touch of Love!

But thou, whose pen hath like a packhorse served,

Whose stomach unto gall hath turned thy food,

Whose senses, like poor prisoners, hunger starved,

Whose grief hath parched thy body, dried thy blood.

Thou which hast scornèd life, and hated death;

And in a moment, mad, sober, glad, and sorry;

Thou which hast banned thy thoughts, and curst thy birth,

With thousand plagues more than in Purgatory:

Thou, thus whose spirit, Love in his fire refines!

Come thou and read, admire, applaud my Lines!