THOMAS RANDOLPH,

Was born in 1605, and died in the 29th year of his age, in 1634, after having acquired a great reputation for poetical talent. Five of his plays were collected, after his death, by his brother, and published in one volume together with his poems.

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

And leave the chargeable noise of this great

town.

I will the country see,

Where old simplicity,

Tho' 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 ideot's praise:

Or to make sport

For some slight puny of the inns of court. Then, worthy Stafford, say,

How shall we spend the day,

With what delights

Shorten the nights,

When from this tumult we are got secure?
Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
Yet shall no finger lose,

Where every word is thought, and every thought

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 shew;

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,

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,
Warbling melodious notes,

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;

Heav'n, 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

The Phrygian melody,

Which he that hears

Lets through his ears

A madness to distemper all the brain.

Then I another pipe will take,

And Doric music make,

To civilize with greater notes our wits again.

EPITHALAMIUM.

MUSE! be a bridemaid: dost not hear How honour'd Hunt, and his fair Deer, This day prepare their wedding cheer?

The swiftest of thy pinions take,
And hence a sudden journey make
To help 'em break their bridal cake.

Haste 'em to church: tell 'em, love says,
Religion breeds but fond delays
To lengthen out the tedious days.

Chide the slow priest, that so goes on
As if he fear'd he should have done
His sermon ere the glass be run:

Bid him post o'er his words as fast
As if himself were now to taste
The pleasure of so fair a waist.

Now lead the blessed couple home,
And serve a dinner up for some;
Their banquet it as yet to come.