I know that all beneath the moon decays

I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time’s great periods shall return to nought:
That fairest states have fatal nights and days;
I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays,
With toil of spright which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds of few or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth or death affords;
That love a jarring is of minds’ accords,
Where sense and will invassal reason’s power:
Know what I list, this all can not me move,
But that, O me! I both must write and love.

The multi-talented Scottish poet, pamphleteer, book-collector and inventor, William Drummond of Hawthornden, was born at Hawthornden Castle in Midlothian, near Edinburgh, in 1558. He initially studied for a law degree, but, after the death of his father John Drummond, he acceded to the lairdship, and was able to devote himself entirely to literature.

Drummond is best known for his outstanding skill in the English sonnet-form derived from Italian Renaissance poet Petrarch. “I know that all beneath the moon decays …” varies the Petrarchan form with a final, Shakespearean rhymed couplet. It’s a poem that, from the start, makes the reader pause and think.

In line one the appearance of the moon is a hinted overturn of the ancient habit of awarding the sun prime position, as in the claim “there’s nothing new under the sun”. Drummond’s “moon” isn’t the usual poetic object, either: there’s no feminine gender, no association with any shining goddess. Being followed by the verb “decays” (governed by “all beneath the moon”) the image acquires a pale desolation, as if the moon were included in the mortality that Drummond spreads beneath it.

The speaker, the poet-persona, is immediately present in the stated “I know …” but autobiography is withheld at this stage. The diction is brilliantly plain and forthright in lines two to four. Notice that “brought” seems to eliminate the achievement of the bringing: it’s less a “bringing forth” than the conveyance of a temporary bundle of achievements. Drummond avoids hyperbole, and even in the aphoristic fourth line, it’s that almost brisk but deadly word “fatal” that provides the impact, rather than the alliteration or antithesis relating “fairest states” and “fatal nights and days”.

Drummond now introduces himself as a writer, telling us he knows all about the toil of composing “the Muse’s heavenly lays” and that they are “dearly bought”. The lays – including the sonnets, it seems – are “idle sounds” with few seekers. Poets today may well sympathise. However, Drummond isn’t persuaded by “airy praise”, either. Perhaps he’s distancing himself at this point from the comments made on his work by the English poet-playwright, Ben Jonson. Jonson’s praise, as recorded by Drummond, had been offset by the judgment that “his verses were too much of the schooles and not after the fancie of the time”.

Drummond’s verses are his own, enlivened by a large imagination and the technical fluency that gives vitality to form. The current sonnet evolves as it continues, adhering to the rules but filling the elegant lines with the energy of personal emotion and even a geographical position, if “the purple flower” of line nine is identified as heather. I’m more inclined to think it’s the legendary pansy, though, which changed colour when shot by Cupid’s arrow. This more aptly fills out the theme of the final six lines, disappointment in love. It’s the stock in trade of so many sonnets, of course. Drummond’s directness and intelligence build personal disappointment into something bigger – an insight that love is “a jarring is of minds’ accords, / Where sense and will invassal reason’s power”. The cool worldliness of “invassal” carries weight which the expected melodramatic verb would risk losing.

Drummond unifies the whole poem with the opening of the couplet, “Know what I list …”, and produces a strong note of defiance in his assertion that he has no choice in the matter. His own “reason” is “invassaled”. He “both must write and love”. The needs are equal, and interlocked. We readers must be glad that Drummond continued all his “toil” and wrote sonnets that flow so strongly and lightly in spite of being “dearly bought”.

While earning his title as the Scottish Petrarch, Drummond wrote in a variety of verse forms. As well as savouring his fine talent for the sonnet, I would recommend checking out the rest of his work to see his range – particularly the charming sextain, Phillis.