Classic Poem

We thank you, worthy sir, that tis our hap
To praise even Randolph now without a clap,
And give our suffrage yet, though not our voice,
To shew the odds betwixt his fame and noyse:
Whose only modesty we could applaud,
That seldome durst presume to blush abroad;
And bear his vast Report, and setting forth
His vertues, grow a suff'rer of his worth,
Was scarce his own acquaintance, and did use
To hear himselfe reported but as newes,
So distant from himselfe, that one might dare
To say those two were nere familiar:
Whose pollisht Phancy hath so smoothly wrought,
That 'tis suspected, and might tempt our thought
To guesse it spent in every birth, so writ
Not as the guift but Legacy of his wit:
Whose unbid braine drops so much flowing worth,
That others are deliver'd, he brought forth;
That did not course in wit, and beat at least
Ten lines in fallow to put up one Jest;
Which still prevents our thought, we need not stay
To th'end, the Epigram is in the way.
The Towne might here grow Poet, nay tis se'd
Some May'ors could hence as eas'ly rime as read;
Whose losse we so much weepe, we cannot heare
His very Comedy's without a teare;
And when we read his mirth, are faine to pray
Leave from our griefe to call the worke a play:
Where fancy plaies with judgement, and so fits
That 'tis enough to make a guard of wits;
Where lines fulfill themselves, and are so right
That but a combats mention is a fight.
His phrase does bring to passe, and hee has lent
Language enough to give the Things Event;
The lines pronounce themselves, and we may say
The Actors were but Echoes of the Play:
Me thinkes the book does act, and we not doubt
To say it rather Enters then Comes out;
Which even you seeme to envy, whose device
Has made it viler even by its price,
And taught its value, which we count so great
That when we buy it cheapest we but cheat;
And when upon one Page we blesse our look,
How-ere we bargaine we have gain'd the book;
Fresh-men in this are forc't to have their right,
And 'tis no purchase though 'twere sold in spight;
So doe we owe you still, that let us know
He gave the world the Playes, and you the Show.