Upon Mr. Randolph's Poëms, Collected and Published After his Death

As when a swelling Cloud melted to showres,
Sweetly diffuses fresh and active powers
Into the shrunke and thirstie veines of earth;
Blessing her barren wombe with a new birth
Of graine and fruit: and so redeemes a land
Of desperate people from th' destroying hand
Of merc'lesse Plague, Famine, or Dearth; and then
Collects it's streames unto the Ocean:
 So thy diffusive soule, and fluent parts,
(Great miracle of naturall wit and Arts,)
Rapt up some Regions 'bove our Spheare, did flow
And showre their blessings downe on us below:
Whilst we, dull earth, in extasies did sit,
Almost o'rewhelmed with thy Flouds of Wit.
What bloud of verse is pump't from our dry Braines,
Sprung like a rushing Torrent from thy Veines.
When a long Drought presag'd some fatall Dearth,
Thy unexhausted Founts gave us new byrth
Of Wit and verse: when Cham , or Isis fell,
Thy open'd Floudgates made their Riv'lets swell
'Bove their proud Banks: Where planted by thy hand
Th' Hesperian Orchards, Paphian Myrtles stand,
And those sweet 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 sing
Melodious Odes, bathing 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 farre from hence
Acknowledge yet thy soveraigne influence:
Sicilians owe to thee their fruitfull Vale ,
And Cotswold Hill thy Dewes created Dale .
All Lands and Soyles from hence were fruitfull growne,
And multipli'd the measures thou hadst sowne.
Green-sword-untilled milk-maids wish no blisses
Beyond a stammel Petticoat, and kisses,
And thy sweet Dowry! This alone, they cry,
Will make our Beasts and Milk to multiply.
And the dull Fallow Clownes, who never thought
Of God or Heaven but in a floud or drought,
Doe 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 rhime to spring.
They pray for the first curse; like Schollers now,
To earne their livings by their sweaty Brow.
Then the fine Gardens of the Court, are set
With Flowers sprung from thy Muses Coronet.
Those pretty Imps in Plush, that on trust goe
For their fine clothes, and their fine Judgments too,
The Frontispice or Titlepage of Playes,
Whose whole discourse is— As the Poet sayes .
That Tavernes draine, (for Ivy is the signe
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 th' totall summe behind the Doore cast up;
These had beene all dry'd up, and many more,
That quaffe up Helicon upon thy score.
The sneaking Tribe, that drinke and write by fits,
As they can steal or borrow coine or wits,
That Pandars fee for Plots, and then belie
The paper with— An excellent Comedie ,
Acted (more was the pitty,) by th' Red Bull
With great applause , of some vaine City Gull;
That damne Philosophy, and prove the curse
Of emptinesse, both in the Braine and Purse;
These that scrape legges and trenchers to my Lord,
Had starv'd but for some scraps pickt from thy Bord.
They 'had try'd the Balladiers or Fidlers trade,
Or a New Comedie at Tiburne made.
Thus, Tom , thy pregnant Phancy crown'd us all
With wealthy showers, or Mines Poeticall.
Nor did thy dews distill in a cold raine,
But with a flash of Lightning op't thy braine,
Which thaw'd our stupid spirits with lively heat,
And from our frosts forc'd a Poëticke sweat.
 And now, Wit's Common-wealth by thee repriv'd,
(For its consumption shewes it not long liv'd,)
Thy farre dispersed Streames divert their course,
(Though some are damned up) to th' Muses Sourse,
This Ocean:—He that will fadome it,
By's Lines shall sound an Ocean of wit;
Not shallow, low, and troubled, but profound,
And vast, though in these narrow limits Bound.
The tribute of our eyes or pens, all we can pay,
Are some poore drops to thy Pactolus Sea,
And first stolne thence, though now so muddy growne
With our fowle channels, they scarce seeme thy owne.
Thus have I seene a peice of Coine, which bore
The Image of my King or Prince before,
New cast into some Peasant, loose its grace;
Yet's the same body with a fowler face.
If our owne store must pay; that Gold which was
Lent us in sterling we must turne in brasse.
Hadst thou writ lesse or worse, then we might lay
Something upon thy Urne thou didst not say:
But thou hadst Phansies vast Monopolie,
Our stocke will scarce amount t'an Elegie!
Yet all the Legacies thy Fatall day
Bequeath'd, thy sad Executour will pay.
 To late Divines (by Will and Testament)
A Paraphrase on each Commandement ,
In Morall Precepts; with a Disputation
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 Purse .
To City-Madams, that bespeak new faces
For every Play or Feast, Thy Looking-glasses .
And to their chamber-maids, who only can
Adorne their Ladies head, and dreame on man,
Th'ast left a Dowry ; They till now, by stealth
Writ only members of the Common-wealth.
To Heaven thy Ravish't Soule , (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 unto Eternitie.
A Husband to thy Widdow'd Poetrie,
Not from the Court but Universitie.
To thy sad Aunt, and now despairing mother,
Thy little Orphans, and thy younger Brother;
From all of which this free Confessions fit,
 The younger sister had the elder Wit.


Ad Authorem.

Mollia quòd tenui currunt mihi carmina filo,
 Et meus in gyro stat breviore labor,
Dum tua constrictis assurgit Musa Cothurnis,
 Et Veneres casto vincit Avena Joco,
Cedimus inculti! Fato par Gloria nostro
 Quod Tua mirentur Carmina, Nostra legant.
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