Poems With the Muses Looking-Glasse. Amyntas. Jealous Lovers. Arystippus. By Tho: Randolph ... The fourth Edition enlarged [by Thomas Randolph] |
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An Eglogue to M. Johnson.
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An Eglogue to M. Johnson.
Tityrus.Vnder this Beech why sits thou heere so sad
Son Damon, that was erst Jovall lad?
These groves were wont to Eccho with the sound
Of thy shrill reed, while every Nymph danc'd round.
Rouse up thy soul, Parnassus mount stands high,
And must be clim'd with painfull industry,
Damon.
You Father on his forked top sit still,
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But I have broke my reed, and deeply swore
Never with wax, never to joynt it more.
Tyt.
Fond boy 'twas rashly done; I meant to thee,
Of all the sons I have, by legacie
To have bequeath'd my pipe, thee, thee of all
I meant it should her second Master call.
Dam.
And do you think I durst presume to play
Where Tytirus had worn his lips away!
Live long thy self to tune it; 'tis from thee,
It has not from it self such Harmony.
But if we ever such disaster have
As to compose our Tityrus in his grave;
Yonder, upon yon aged Oak, that now
Old trophies bears, on every sacred bow
We'l hang it up a relick, we will do it,
And learned swains shall pay devotion to it,
Tyt.
Canst thou farewell unto the Muses bid?
Then Bees shall loath the Thyme, the new wean'd Kid
Browze on the buds no more; the reeming ews
Henceforth the tender fallows shall refuse.
Dam.
I by those Ladies now do nothing set;
Let 'em for me some other servant get:
They shall no more be Mistresses of mine,
No, though my pipe had hope to equall thine,
Thine which the floods have stopt their course to heare
To which the spotted Linx hath lent an ear.
Which while the severall Echo's would repeat,
The Musick has been sweet, the Art so great
That Pan himself amaz'd at thy deep aires,
Sent thee of his own bowl to drown thy cares.
Of all the gods Pan doth the pipe respect,
The rest unlearned pleasures more affect.
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From Bavius loose lascivious Minstralsie,
Or Marvius windy Bagpipe, Mævius, he
Whose wit is but a Tavern Tympany.
If ever I flock of my own do feed,
My fattest Lambs shall on his Altar bleed.
Tyt
Two Altars I will build him, and each year
Will sacrifice two well-fed Bullocks there;
Two that have horns, that while they butting stand
Strike from their feet a cloud of numerous sand.
But what can make thee leave the Muses, man,
That such a Patron hast as mighty Pan?
Whence is this fury? Did the partiall ear
Of the rude Vulgar, when they late did hear
Egon, and thee contend which best should play,
Him Victour deem, and give thy kid away?
Does Amarillis cause this high despair?
Or Galatea's coynesse breed thy care?
Dam.
Neither of these, the Vulgar I contemn:
Thy pipe, not always Tytirus wins with them:
And as for Love, insooth I do not know
Whether he wears a bow, and shafts or no.
Or did I, I a way could quickly find,
To win the beauteous Galatea's mind,
Or Amarillis: I to both could send
Apples that with Hesperian fruit contend:
And on occasion could have quickly guest
Where two fair Ring-doves built their amorous nest:
Tyt.
If none of these, my Damon then aread
What other cause can so much passion breed!
Dam.
Father, I will, in those indulgent ears
I dare unload the burden of my fears.
The Reapers that with whetted sickles stand,
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Though they endure the scorching summers heat,
Have yet some wages to allay their sweat:
The Lopper that doth fell the sttudry Oke
Labours, yet has good pay for every stroak.
The Plowman is rewarded: onely we
That sing are paid with our own melody;
Rich churles have learnt to praise us, and admire,
But have not learnt to think us worth the bite.
So toiling Ants perchance delight to hear,
The summer musick of the Grashopper.
But after rather let him starve with pain,
Then spare him from their store one single grain.
As when great Iunos beauteous bird displayes
Her starry tail, the boyes do run and gaze
At her proud train; so look they now adaies
On Poets: and do think if they but praise,
Or pardon what we sing, enough they do:
I, and tis well that they do so much too.
My rage is swell'd so high I cannot speak it,
Had I Pan's Pipe or thine I now should break it!
Tyt.
Let Moles delight in Earth; Swine dung-hils rake,
Crowes prey on Carrion; Frogs a pleasure take
In slimy Pools; and Niggards wealth admire;
But we whose souls are made of purer fire,
Have other aimes: whose songs for gain hath made,
Has of a liberall Science fram'd a Trade.
Hark how the Nightingale in yonder tree,
Hid in the boughs, warbles melodiously
Her various musique forth, while the whole Quire
Of other birds flock round, and all admire!
But who rewards her? will the ravenous Kite
Part with her prey to pay for her delight?
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Now turn'd a hearer, to requite her play
Lend her a straw? or any of the rest
Fetch her a fether when she builds her nest?
Yet sings she ne're the lesse, till every den
Do catch at her last notes: And shall I then
His fortunes, Damon, 'bove my own commend,
Who can more cheese into the market send:
Clowns for posterite may cark and care,
That cannot out-live death but in an Heir:
By more then wealth we propogate our Names,
That trust not to successions, but our Fames.
Let hid-bound churles yoak the laboriug Ox,
Milk hundred goates, and share a thousand flocks;
Plant gainfull Orchards, and in silver shine;
Thou of all fruits should'st onely prune the Vine,
Whose fruit being tasted, might erect thy brain
To teach some ravishing, high, and lofty strain;
The double birth of Baccbus to express,
First in the Grape, the second in the Presse.
And therefore tell me boy, what is't can move
Thy minde once fixed on the Muses Love?
Dam.
When I contented liv'd by Cham's fair streams,
Without desire to see the prouder Thames,
I had no flock to care for, but could sit
Under a Willow covert, and repeat
Those deep and learned layes, on every part
Grounded on judgement, subtilty, and Art.
That the great Tutor to the greatest King,
The shepheard of Stagira, us'd to sing;
The Shepheord of Stagira, that unfolds
All natures Closet, shews what e're it holds
The matter, forme, sence, motion, place, and measure
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How Elements do change; What is the cause
Of Generation; what the Rule and Laws
The Orbs do move by; Censures every starre,
Why this is fixt, and this irregular;
Knows all the Heavens, as if he had been there,
And help't each Angell turn about her sphear.
The thirsty pilgrim travelling by land,
When the fierce Dog-star doth the day command,
Halfe choak'd with dust, parch't with the soultry heate,
Tir'd with his journey, and o'recome with sweat,
Finding a gentle spring, at her cool brink
Doth not with more delight sit down and drink,
Then I record his songs: we see a cloud,
And fearing to be wet, do run and shroud
Vnder a bush, when he would sit and tell
The cause that made her misty womb to swell;
Why it sometimes in drops of rain doth flow,
Sometimes dissolves her selfe in flakes of snow:
Nor gaz'd he at a Comet, but would frame
A reason why it wore a beard of flame.
Ah Tytirus, I would with all my heart,
Even with the best of my carv'd mazers part,
To hear him, as he us'd, divinely shew,
What 'tis that paints the divers colour'd bow:
Whence thunders are discharg'd, whence the winds stray,
What foot through heaven hath worn the milky wayes
And yet I let this true delight alone,
Cal'd thence to keep the flock of Corydon.
Ah wo is me anothers flock to keep;
The care is mine, the master shears the sheep!
A flock it was that would not keep together;
A flock that had no fleece when it came hither,
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For 'twas a flock made up of severall strayes:
And now I would return to Cham, I hear
A desolation frights the Muses there!
With rustick swains I mean to spend my time;
Teach me there father to preserve my rime.
Tyt.
To morrow morning I will counsell thee,
Meet me at Faunus Beech; for now you see
How larger shadows from the mountains fall,
And Corydon doth Damon, Damon call.
Damon, 'tis time my flock were in the fold,
More then high time, did you not erst behold
How Hesperus above yon clouds appear'd,
Hesperus leading forth his bounteous heard?
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