Michael Drayton’s sonnet turns the idea of love as a helpless wanderer into a personal, half-mocking complaint. The speaker imagines Love as a ragged beggar, cast out of heaven and shunned on Earth. Out of pity, he takes this divine-born but destitute figure into his home, feeding him with sighs and tears — his own emotional devotion, transformed into a feast meant to comfort the miserable. The mood is at first gently self-deprecating, almost proud of his own charity. But then the guest turns traitor: Love convinces the speaker’s thoughts to steal his heart and sets his very breast ablaze with passion. The final couplet lands with a chilly, rueful smirk: when beggars act this brazen, who can blame anyone for shutting the door? The speaker’s pious sweetness curdles into exasperated bitterness, leaving a sour half-joke about how good intentions get punished. The overall effect is wry, worldly, and slightly theatrical — a lover dressing up his pain as a cautionary fable.
Sonnet XXII: Love, Banish'd Heav'n — Summary
Love, banish'd Heav'n, on Earth was held in scorn, Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary, And wanting friends, though of a Goddess born, Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by. I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest, With sighs and tears still furnishing his table With what might make the miserable blest. But this ungrateful, for my good desert, Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart, And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold.