Poems With the Muses Looking-Glasse. Amyntas. Jealous Lovers. Arystippus. By Tho: Randolph ... The fourth Edition enlarged [by Thomas Randolph] |
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To the pious Memory of my deare Brother in-law, M. Thomas Randolph.
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To the pious Memory of my deare Brother in-law, M. Thomas Randolph.
Readers, prepare your Faith; who truly tells
His History, must needs write miracles.
He lisp'd Wit worthy th'Presse, as if that he
Had us'd his Cradle as a Library.
Some of these Fruits had birth, when other Boyes
(His elders) playd with Nuts, Books were his Toyes.
He had not long of Playes spectator been
But his small Feet wore Socks sit for the Scene.
His History, must needs write miracles.
He lisp'd Wit worthy th'Presse, as if that he
Had us'd his Cradle as a Library.
Some of these Fruits had birth, when other Boyes
(His elders) playd with Nuts, Books were his Toyes.
He had not long of Playes spectator been
But his small Feet wore Socks sit for the Scene.
He was not like those costive Wits, who blot
A quire of Paper to contrive a Plot,
And ere they name it, till it, crostr tit look
Raced with wounds like an old mercers Book.
What pleas'd this year, is next in pieces torn,
It suffers many deaths ere it be born.
A quire of Paper to contrive a Plot,
And ere they name it, till it, crostr tit look
Raced with wounds like an old mercers Book.
What pleas'd this year, is next in pieces torn,
It suffers many deaths ere it be born.
For Humours to lie leidger they are seen
Oft in a Tavern, and a bowling-green.
They do observe each place, and company,
As strictly as a Traveller or Spye.
And deifying dung-hills seem t'adore
The scum of people, Watch-man, Changling, Whore,
To know the vice, and ignorance of all,
With any Rags they'le drink a pot of Ale:
Nay, what is more (a strange unusuall thing
With Poets) they will pay the reckoning;
And sit with patience an hour by the Heels
To learn the Non-sense of the Constables.
Such Jig-like flim-flams being got to make
The Rable laugh, and Nut-cracking forsake,
They go home (if th'have any) and there sit
In Gown and night-cap looking for some wit.
Ere they compose, they must for along space
Be dieted as Horses for the race.
They must not Bacon, Beef, or Pudding eat,
A jest may chance be starv'd with such grosse meat.
The good hour come, and their Brain tun'd they write
But slow as dying men their wills indite.
They pen by drams and scruples, from their quill
Words (although dreggy) flow not, but distill.
They state, and sower their faces; nay to vent
The Brains, they eat their fingers excrement:
And search their heads, as if they weer about
(Their wit so hide-bound is) to pull it out.
Every bald speech though Comicall it be
To their rack't members, proves a Tragedie.
When they have had the Councell of some friend,
And of their begging Epilogue made an end.
Their Play saluts the world, and claims the Stage
For its inheritance being now of Age.
Oft in a Tavern, and a bowling-green.
They do observe each place, and company,
As strictly as a Traveller or Spye.
And deifying dung-hills seem t'adore
The scum of people, Watch-man, Changling, Whore,
To know the vice, and ignorance of all,
With any Rags they'le drink a pot of Ale:
Nay, what is more (a strange unusuall thing
With Poets) they will pay the reckoning;
And sit with patience an hour by the Heels
To learn the Non-sense of the Constables.
Such Jig-like flim-flams being got to make
The Rable laugh, and Nut-cracking forsake,
They go home (if th'have any) and there sit
Ere they compose, they must for along space
Be dieted as Horses for the race.
They must not Bacon, Beef, or Pudding eat,
A jest may chance be starv'd with such grosse meat.
The good hour come, and their Brain tun'd they write
But slow as dying men their wills indite.
They pen by drams and scruples, from their quill
Words (although dreggy) flow not, but distill.
They state, and sower their faces; nay to vent
The Brains, they eat their fingers excrement:
And search their heads, as if they weer about
(Their wit so hide-bound is) to pull it out.
Every bald speech though Comicall it be
To their rack't members, proves a Tragedie.
When they have had the Councell of some friend,
And of their begging Epilogue made an end.
Their Play saluts the world, and claims the Stage
For its inheritance being now of Age.
But while They pomp't their Phancy day and night
He nothing harder found then not to write.
No diet could corrupt or mend his strain,
All tempers were the best to his sure Brain.
He could with raptures captivate the King,
Yet not endanger Button, or Band-string.
Poems from him gush't out so readily
As if they'd onely been in's Memory?
Yet are they with as marble fancies wrought,
As theirs whose pen writes for the thirteenth thought.
They erre who say, Things quickly done soon fade:
Nature and hee, all in an instant made.
Those that do measure Phansies by the glasse,
And dote on such as cost more time, may passe
In ranck with guls, whom folly doth intice
To think that best that has the greatest price.
Who poring on their spungy brain, still squeez,
Neglect the cream, and onely save the Lees.
Stopping their flying quill, they clip fames wing.
Make Helicon a puddle, thats a Spring.
He nothing harder found then not to write.
No diet could corrupt or mend his strain,
All tempers were the best to his sure Brain.
He could with raptures captivate the King,
Yet not endanger Button, or Band-string.
Poems from him gush't out so readily
As if they'd onely been in's Memory?
Yet are they with as marble fancies wrought,
As theirs whose pen writes for the thirteenth thought.
They erre who say, Things quickly done soon fade:
Nature and hee, all in an instant made.
Those that do measure Phansies by the glasse,
And dote on such as cost more time, may passe
To think that best that has the greatest price.
Who poring on their spungy brain, still squeez,
Neglect the cream, and onely save the Lees.
Stopping their flying quill, they clip fames wing.
Make Helicon a puddle, thats a Spring.
Nor was his hast hood-winckt; his rage was wise
His fury councell had, his rashnesse eyes.
Though he (as Engins arrows) shot forth wit,
Yet aym'd withall the proper marks to hit.
His Ink nere stain'd the Surplice; he doth right
That sometimes takes a care to misse the white.
He turn'd no Scripture-phrase into a jest;
He was inspir'd with raptures, not possest.
Some Divelish Poets think their Muse does ill
Vnlesse their verses do prophane or kill.
They boldly write what I should fear to think,
words that do pale their paper, black their Ink.
The Titles of their Satyers fright some, more
Then Lord have mercy, write upon a doore.
His fury councell had, his rashnesse eyes.
Though he (as Engins arrows) shot forth wit,
Yet aym'd withall the proper marks to hit.
His Ink nere stain'd the Surplice; he doth right
That sometimes takes a care to misse the white.
He turn'd no Scripture-phrase into a jest;
He was inspir'd with raptures, not possest.
Some Divelish Poets think their Muse does ill
Vnlesse their verses do prophane or kill.
They boldly write what I should fear to think,
words that do pale their paper, black their Ink.
The Titles of their Satyers fright some, more
Then Lord have mercy, write upon a doore.
Although his wit was sharp as anothers, yet
It never wounded; thus a Razer set
In a wise Barbars hand tickles the skin,
And leaves a smooth, not carbonaded chin.
So soveraigne was his phansy, that you'd think
His quickening pen did Balsam drop, not Ink.
Read's Elegies, and you will see his praise
Doth many souls fore th' Resurection raise,
No venoms in his book; his very Snake
You may as safely as a flower take.
There's none needs fear to furfet with his phrase,
He has no Gyant raptures to amaze
And torture weake capacities with wonder:
He (by his Laurell guarded) ne're did thunder
As those strong bumbast wits, whose Poetry
Sounds like a Charm, or Spanish Pedigree.
Who with their phancy towring 'bove the Sun,
Have in their stile Babels confusion.
If puny eyes do read their verses, they
Will think 'tis Hebrew, writ the English way.
It never wounded; thus a Razer set
In a wise Barbars hand tickles the skin,
And leaves a smooth, not carbonaded chin.
So soveraigne was his phansy, that you'd think
His quickening pen did Balsam drop, not Ink.
Read's Elegies, and you will see his praise
Doth many souls fore th' Resurection raise,
No venoms in his book; his very Snake
You may as safely as a flower take.
There's none needs fear to furfet with his phrase,
He has no Gyant raptures to amaze
And torture weake capacities with wonder:
As those strong bumbast wits, whose Poetry
Sounds like a Charm, or Spanish Pedigree.
Who with their phancy towring 'bove the Sun,
Have in their stile Babels confusion.
If puny eyes do read their verses, they
Will think 'tis Hebrew, writ the English way.
His lines do run smooth as the feet of time;
Each leafe though rich, swells not with gouty rime.
Here is no thrum, or knot; Arachne ne're
Weav'd a more even webb; and as they are
Listed for smoothnesse, so in this again
That each thread's spun and warp'd by his own brain.
Each leafe though rich, swells not with gouty rime.
Here is no thrum, or knot; Arachne ne're
Weav'd a more even webb; and as they are
Listed for smoothnesse, so in this again
That each thread's spun and warp'd by his own brain.
We have some Poetasters, who although
They ne're beyond the writing school did go,
Sit at Apollo's Table, when as they
But Midwives are, not Parents to a Play.
Were they betrai'd, they'd be each Coblers scoff,
Laught at, as one whose Periwig's blown off.
Their Brains lie all in Notes; Lord how they'd look
If they should chance to lose their Table book!
Their Bayes, like Ivy, cannot mount at all
But by some neighbouring tree, or joyning wall.
They ne're beyond the writing school did go,
Sit at Apollo's Table, when as they
But Midwives are, not Parents to a Play.
Were they betrai'd, they'd be each Coblers scoff,
Laught at, as one whose Periwig's blown off.
Their Brains lie all in Notes; Lord how they'd look
If they should chance to lose their Table book!
Their Bayes, like Ivy, cannot mount at all
But by some neighbouring tree, or joyning wall.
VVith what an extasie shall we behold
This book, which is no Ghost of any old
VVorm-eaten Author: here's no jest, or hint,
But had his Head both for it's O're and Mint,
VVer't not for some Translations, none could know
VVhether he had e're look'd in book or no.
He could discourse of any subject, yet
No cold premeditated sense repeat;
As he that nothing at the Table talks
But what was cook'd in's study, or the walks,
Whose wit (like a Sun-dill) onely can
Go true in this, or that Miridian.
Each Climate was to him his proper Sphear;
You'd think he had been brought up everywhere.
This book, which is no Ghost of any old
VVorm-eaten Author: here's no jest, or hint,
But had his Head both for it's O're and Mint,
VVer't not for some Translations, none could know
VVhether he had e're look'd in book or no.
He could discourse of any subject, yet
No cold premeditated sense repeat;
As he that nothing at the Table talks
But what was cook'd in's study, or the walks,
Go true in this, or that Miridian.
Each Climate was to him his proper Sphear;
You'd think he had been brought up everywhere.
Was he at Court? his Complements would be
Rich wrought with Phansies best embroidery,
Which the spruse Gallants Echo like would speak
So oft, as they'd be thred-bare in a week.
They lov'd even his Abuses, the same jeer
(So witty 'twas) would sting and please their ear.
Rich wrought with Phansies best embroidery,
Which the spruse Gallants Echo like would speak
So oft, as they'd be thred-bare in a week.
They lov'd even his Abuses, the same jeer
(So witty 'twas) would sting and please their ear.
Read's flowry Pastoralls, and you will swear
He was not Iohnsons onely, but Pans Heire.
His smooth Amyntas would perswade even me
To think he alwayes liv'd in Sicilie.
Those happier Groves that shaded him, were all
As Trees of knowledge, and Propheticall:
Dodon's were but the type of them, Leaves were
Bookes in old time, but became Schollers here.
Had he lived till Westminster Hall was seen
In Forrest Towns, perhaps he fin'd had been.
Whilst others made Trees May poles, he could do
As Orpheus did, and make them dancers too.
He was not Iohnsons onely, but Pans Heire.
His smooth Amyntas would perswade even me
To think he alwayes liv'd in Sicilie.
Those happier Groves that shaded him, were all
As Trees of knowledge, and Propheticall:
Dodon's were but the type of them, Leaves were
Bookes in old time, but became Schollers here.
Had he lived till Westminster Hall was seen
In Forrest Towns, perhaps he fin'd had been.
Whilst others made Trees May poles, he could do
As Orpheus did, and make them dancers too.
But these were the light sports of his spare time,
He was as able to dispute, as time
And all (two gifts neere joyn'd before) out went
As well in Syllogesme as Complement.
Who lookes within his cleerer Glasse, will say
At once he writ an Ethick Tract and Play.
VVhen he in Cambridge Schools did Moderate,
(Truth never found a subtler Advocate)
He had as many Auditors, as those
VVho preach, their mouthes being Silenc't, through the Nose.
The Grave Divines stood gazing, as if there
In words was colour, or in th eye an ear:
To hear him they would penetrate each other,
Embrace a throng, and love a noysome smother,
Though plodding Pates much time and oyl had spent
In beating out an obscure Argument.
He could untie, not break, the subtlest knot
Their puzeling Art could weave; nay he had got
The trick on't so, as if that he had been
Within each Brain, and the nice folding seen.
Who went toh'Schools Peripateticks, came,
If he disputed home in Plato's name.
His Oppositions were as Text; some le'd
With wonder, thought he had not urg'd but read.
He was as able to dispute, as time
And all (two gifts neere joyn'd before) out went
As well in Syllogesme as Complement.
Who lookes within his cleerer Glasse, will say
At once he writ an Ethick Tract and Play.
VVhen he in Cambridge Schools did Moderate,
(Truth never found a subtler Advocate)
He had as many Auditors, as those
VVho preach, their mouthes being Silenc't, through the Nose.
The Grave Divines stood gazing, as if there
To hear him they would penetrate each other,
Embrace a throng, and love a noysome smother,
Though plodding Pates much time and oyl had spent
In beating out an obscure Argument.
He could untie, not break, the subtlest knot
Their puzeling Art could weave; nay he had got
The trick on't so, as if that he had been
Within each Brain, and the nice folding seen.
Who went toh'Schools Peripateticks, came,
If he disputed home in Plato's name.
His Oppositions were as Text; some le'd
With wonder, thought he had not urg'd but read.
Nor was his judgement all Phillosophy;
He was in points of deep Divinity.
Onely Not Doctor; his true Catholique Brain
The learning of a Councell did contain,
He was in points of deep Divinity.
Onely Not Doctor; his true Catholique Brain
The learning of a Councell did contain,
But all his works are lost, his Fire is out
These are but's Ashes, which were thrown about,
And now rak'd up together, all we have
With pious sacriledge snatch'd from his Grave.
Are a few meteors, which may make it se'd
That Tom is yet alive, but Randolph's dead.
These are but's Ashes, which were thrown about,
And now rak'd up together, all we have
With pious sacriledge snatch'd from his Grave.
Are a few meteors, which may make it se'd
That Tom is yet alive, but Randolph's dead.
Thus when a Marchant's posting o're the sea
With his rich loaden Sip is cast away.
Some light small wares do swim unto the shore,
But the great and solid prizes nere rise more.
With his rich loaden Sip is cast away.
Some light small wares do swim unto the shore,
But the great and solid prizes nere rise more.
RIC WETS. Bac. of Arts, and student of Christs Church.
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