THOMAS RANDOLPH, Son of the steward to Edward lord Zouch, was born in Northamptonshire, 1605, educated on the foundation of Westminster, and in 1623 sent to Trinity College, Cambridge, of which he afterwards became fellow. Having taken the degree of A. M. he was admitted ad eundem at Oxford, and "became," says Wood, "famous for his " ingenuity, an adopted son of Ben Jonson, and account"ed one of the most pregnant wits of his age." He died in his 29th year, 1634, coming to an untimely end, according to the authority just quoted, “ by indulging him"self too much with the liberal conversation of his admirers ; 66 a thing incident to poets." Langbaine tells us, he was "too much addicted to the principles of his predecessor "Aristippus, pleasure and contempt of wealth." He left six plays behind him, five of which are to be found in the collection of his poems published by his brother after his death, 12mo. 1640, and several times afterwards: the fifth edition, in 1664, professing to be much enlarged and corrected. See a high character of these, particularly "The Muses' Looking-glass,” in Langbaine, and the Biographia Dramatica. The former allows Randolph, what he grants to very few, the praise of originality; and Phillips observes, that "the quick conceit and clear poe"tic fancy discovered in his extant poems, seemed to "promise something extraordinary." Vide also the Biographia Britannica. ODE To Mr Anthony Stafford, to hasten him into the Country. COME, spur away! I have no patience for a longer stay; But must go down I will the country see, Though hid in grey, Doth look more gay Than Foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war ! 'Tis time that I grow wise when all the world grows mad. More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise : For some slight puny of the inns of court. Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the da With what delights When from this tumult we are got secure? Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure. There, from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; And every day Go see the wholesome country-girls make hay; Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show; Where I had rather gain a kiss, than meet (Though some of them in greater state, Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard street. But think upon Some other pleasures; these to me are none. Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate? I never mean to wed That torture to my bed. My Muse is she My love shall be. Let clowns get wealth and heirs!-When I am gone, And the great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. Of this no more We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store: Our palates, from the damson to the grape. Then full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the quire; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire. Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly. Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox, or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they'll choose: The buck shall fall, The stag and all: Our pleasures must from their own warrants be. For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free ; Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain. Then I another pipe will take, And Doric music make To civilize with graver notes our wits again. EPITHALAMIUM. MUSE, be a bridemaid! dost not hear The swiftest of thy pinions take, |