Poems With the Muses Looking-Glasse. Amyntas. Jealous Lovers. Arystippus. By Tho: Randolph ... The fourth Edition enlarged [by Thomas Randolph] |
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Vpon Mr. Randolph's Poems. Collected and published after his death.
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 | Poems |  |
Vpon Mr. Randolph's Poems. Collected and published after his death.
As when a swelling Cloud melted to showers,
Sweetly deffuses fresh and active powers
Into the shrunk and thirsty veines of earth;
Blessing her barren womb with a new birth
Of grain and fruit, and so redeems a land
Of desperate people, from the destroying hand
Of merc'lesse Plague, Famine or Death, and then
Collects his streams into an Ocean:
Sweetly deffuses fresh and active powers
Blessing her barren womb with a new birth
Of grain and fruit, and so redeems a land
Of desperate people, from the destroying hand
Of merc'lesse Plague, Famine or Death, and then
Collects his streams into an Ocean:
So thy deffusive soul, and fluent parts,
(Great miracle of naturall wit, and Arts)
Rapt up some Regions, bove our Sphear, did flow
And shower their blessings down on us below:
Whilst we dul earth, in extasies did sit
Almost o'rewhelmed with thy flouds of wit.
What bloud or verse, is pomp't from our dry brains
Sprung like a tushing Torrent from thy Veines.
When a long drought presag'd some fatall Dearth,
Thy unexhausted Founts gave us new birth,
Of wit and verse; when Cham or Isis fell,
Thy opn'd floud gates made their Riv'lets swell
Bove their proud Bancks: where planted by thy hand
Th'resperian Orchards, Paphian Myrtles stand,
And those sweete shades, where Lovers tell their blisses
To th' whisp'ring leaves, and summe'em up in kisses.
There in full Quire the Muses us'd to singe
Melodious Odeshatching in Cham, their Spring.
And all the Graces TOM, dwelt with thee too
Crowning thy Front for old Citherons Brow.
(Great miracle of naturall wit, and Arts)
Rapt up some Regions, bove our Sphear, did flow
And shower their blessings down on us below:
Whilst we dul earth, in extasies did sit
Almost o'rewhelmed with thy flouds of wit.
What bloud or verse, is pomp't from our dry brains
Sprung like a tushing Torrent from thy Veines.
When a long drought presag'd some fatall Dearth,
Thy unexhausted Founts gave us new birth,
Of wit and verse; when Cham or Isis fell,
Thy opn'd floud gates made their Riv'lets swell
Bove their proud Bancks: where planted by thy hand
Th'resperian Orchards, Paphian Myrtles stand,
And those sweete shades, where Lovers tell their blisses
To th' whisp'ring leaves, and summe'em up in kisses.
There in full Quire the Muses us'd to singe
Melodious Odeshatching in Cham, their Spring.
And all the Graces TOM, dwelt with thee too
Crowning thy Front for old Citherons Brow.
Nor were we rich alone, Climes far from hence
Acknowledge you thy soveraigne influence:
Sicillivis owe to thee their fruitfull Vale,
And Cotswold Hill thy dewes created Dale
All Lands and soyles from hence were fruitfull grown,
And multipli'd the measures thou hast sown.
Green-sword-untiled milk maids wish no blisses
Beyond a stammell Petticoat, and kisses,
And thy sweet Dowry: this alone, they cry,
Will make our Beasts and milk to multiply.
And the dull Fallow Clowns, who never thought
Of God or Heaven, but in a floud or drought,
Do gape and pray for Crops of Wit, and vow
To make their Lads and Wenches, Poets now.
For they can make their fields to laugh and sing
To th' Muses Pipe, and Winter rihme to 'spring-
They pray for the first curse; like Schollers now,
To earn their livings by their sweaty Brow.
Then the find Gardens of the Court are set
With Flowers sprung from thy Muses Coronet.
Those pretty Imps in Plush that on trust go
For their fine clothes, and their fined Iudgements too,
The frontispeece or Title page of Playes,
Whose whole discourse is—As the Poet sayes.
That Tauerns drain, (for Ivie is the sign
Of all such sack-shop wits, as well as wine.)
And make their verses dance on either hand
With numerous feet, whilst they want feet to stand
That score up jests for every glasse or cup,
And the totall summe behinde the door cast up;
These had been all dri'd up, and many more,
That quaft up Helicon upon thy score.
The sneaking Tribe, that drink and write by fits,
As they can steale or borrow coyn or wits.
That Panders fee for Plots, and then bely
The paper with-An excelent Comedy,
Acted (more was the pity) by th'Red Bull
With great aplause, of some vain City-Gull:
That damn Philosophy, and prove the curse
Of emptinesse, both in the brain and Purse,
These that scrape legs and trenchers to my Lord,
Had starv'd, but for some scraps pickt from thy board.
They had tri'd the Balladiers of Fidlers trade,
Or a new Comedy at Tiburn made.
Thus TOM thy pregnant Phancy crown'd us all
With wealthy showers or minds Poeticall
Nor did thy dewes distill in a cold raine
But with a flash of Lightening op't thy braine.
Which thaw'd our stupid spirits with lively heat,
And from our frosts forc'd a Poetick sweat
And now wits Common-wealth by thee repriv'd
For its consumption shewes it not long liv'd,
Thy far dispersed Streames divert their course
Though some are damned up (toth' Muse Scourse
This Ocean:—He that will fadome it
By's Lines, shall sound an Ocean of wit.
Not shallow, low, and troubled, but profound
And vest, though in these narrow limits bound
The tribute of our eyes or pens, all we can pay,
Are some poor drops to thy Pactolus Sea.
And first stoln thence, though now so muddy grown
With our foul channels, they scarce seem thy own.
Thus have I seen a peece of Coyn, which bore
The Image of my King or Prince before,
New cast into some Pesant, lose its grace;
Yet's the same body with a fouler face.
If our own store must pay; that gold which was
Lent us in sterling, we must turn in brasse.
Had'st thou write lesse or worse, then we might lay
Some thing upon thy Vrn thou didst not say:
But thou hast Phansies vast Monopolie,
Our flock will scarce amount t'an Elegie,
Yet all the Legacies thy fatall day
Bequeath'd, thy sad Executor will pay.
Acknowledge you thy soveraigne influence:
Sicillivis owe to thee their fruitfull Vale,
And Cotswold Hill thy dewes created Dale
All Lands and soyles from hence were fruitfull grown,
And multipli'd the measures thou hast sown.
Green-sword-untiled milk maids wish no blisses
And thy sweet Dowry: this alone, they cry,
Will make our Beasts and milk to multiply.
And the dull Fallow Clowns, who never thought
Of God or Heaven, but in a floud or drought,
Do gape and pray for Crops of Wit, and vow
To make their Lads and Wenches, Poets now.
For they can make their fields to laugh and sing
To th' Muses Pipe, and Winter rihme to 'spring-
They pray for the first curse; like Schollers now,
To earn their livings by their sweaty Brow.
Then the find Gardens of the Court are set
With Flowers sprung from thy Muses Coronet.
Those pretty Imps in Plush that on trust go
For their fine clothes, and their fined Iudgements too,
The frontispeece or Title page of Playes,
Whose whole discourse is—As the Poet sayes.
That Tauerns drain, (for Ivie is the sign
Of all such sack-shop wits, as well as wine.)
And make their verses dance on either hand
With numerous feet, whilst they want feet to stand
That score up jests for every glasse or cup,
And the totall summe behinde the door cast up;
These had been all dri'd up, and many more,
That quaft up Helicon upon thy score.
The sneaking Tribe, that drink and write by fits,
As they can steale or borrow coyn or wits.
That Panders fee for Plots, and then bely
The paper with-An excelent Comedy,
Acted (more was the pity) by th'Red Bull
With great aplause, of some vain City-Gull:
That damn Philosophy, and prove the curse
Of emptinesse, both in the brain and Purse,
Had starv'd, but for some scraps pickt from thy board.
They had tri'd the Balladiers of Fidlers trade,
Or a new Comedy at Tiburn made.
Thus TOM thy pregnant Phancy crown'd us all
With wealthy showers or minds Poeticall
Nor did thy dewes distill in a cold raine
But with a flash of Lightening op't thy braine.
Which thaw'd our stupid spirits with lively heat,
And from our frosts forc'd a Poetick sweat
And now wits Common-wealth by thee repriv'd
For its consumption shewes it not long liv'd,
Thy far dispersed Streames divert their course
Though some are damned up (toth' Muse Scourse
This Ocean:—He that will fadome it
By's Lines, shall sound an Ocean of wit.
Not shallow, low, and troubled, but profound
And vest, though in these narrow limits bound
The tribute of our eyes or pens, all we can pay,
Are some poor drops to thy Pactolus Sea.
And first stoln thence, though now so muddy grown
With our foul channels, they scarce seem thy own.
Thus have I seen a peece of Coyn, which bore
The Image of my King or Prince before,
New cast into some Pesant, lose its grace;
Yet's the same body with a fouler face.
If our own store must pay; that gold which was
Lent us in sterling, we must turn in brasse.
Had'st thou write lesse or worse, then we might lay
Some thing upon thy Vrn thou didst not say:
But thou hast Phansies vast Monopolie,
Our flock will scarce amount t'an Elegie,
Yet all the Legacies thy fatall day
To late Divines (by will and Testament)
A pæraphrase on each Commandement,
In Morall Precepts, with a Disputacion
Ending the Quarrells 'bout Predestination.
To those that study how to spend the day,
And yet grow wise—The Ethicks in a play,
To Poets, 'cause there is no greater curse,
Thou bequeathdst nothing, in thy empty purss,
To City—Madams, that bespeak new faces
For every Ploy or Feast, Thy Looking-glasses,
And to their Chamber maids who only can
Adorn their Ladies head: and dream of man.
Th'ast left a Dowry; they tell now by stelth
Writ only members of the Common-wealth.
To Heaven thy Ravish't soul, (though who shall look,
Will say it lives, in each line of thy Book)
Thy Dust, unnaturall Reliques that could die,
To earth; thy Fame, into eternitie.
A Husband to thy VViddow'd Poetry,
Not from the Court, but Vniversity.
To thy sad Aunt, and now disparing mother,
Thy little Orphans, and thy younger Brother;
From all of which this free Confessions fit
The younger Sister had the elder wit.
A pæraphrase on each Commandement,
In Morall Precepts, with a Disputacion
Ending the Quarrells 'bout Predestination.
To those that study how to spend the day,
And yet grow wise—The Ethicks in a play,
To Poets, 'cause there is no greater curse,
Thou bequeathdst nothing, in thy empty purss,
To City—Madams, that bespeak new faces
For every Ploy or Feast, Thy Looking-glasses,
And to their Chamber maids who only can
Adorn their Ladies head: and dream of man.
Th'ast left a Dowry; they tell now by stelth
Writ only members of the Common-wealth.
To Heaven thy Ravish't soul, (though who shall look,
Will say it lives, in each line of thy Book)
Thy Dust, unnaturall Reliques that could die,
To earth; thy Fame, into eternitie.
A Husband to thy VViddow'd Poetry,
Not from the Court, but Vniversity.
To thy sad Aunt, and now disparing mother,
Thy little Orphans, and thy younger Brother;
From all of which this free Confessions fit
The younger Sister had the elder wit.
| Poems | |