Another sonnet by Michael Drayton, who was born in 1563 and fell in love at an early age, the daughter of his master, and loved her for the rest of his life, whether his love was requited or unrequited, he didn’t marry her. he died in 1631, and is buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey.
The following sonnet is the second of sixty-four that he wrote in the 1590’s
As other men, so I myself do muse
Why in this sort I wrest invention so,
And why these giddy metaphors I use,
Leaving the path the greater part do go.
I will resolve you: I am lunatic,
And ever this in madmen you shall find
What they last thought of, when the brain grew sick,
In most distraction they keep that in mind.
Thus talking idly in this bedlam fit,
Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain;
‘Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit,
Bear with me, then, though troubled be my brain.
With diet and correction, men distraught
(Not too far past) may to their wits be brought