Volume 1 — THOMAS RANDOLPH.

This was a true poet, although his power comes forth principally in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, Northamptonshire, in 1605, being the you of Lord Zouch's steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge. Ben Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whether from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intemperate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His death took place at the house of W. Stafford, Esq. of Blatherwyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with considerable power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover feeling and genius.

THE PRAISE OF WOMAN.

He is a parricide to his mother's name, And with an impious hand murders her fame, That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite The milk they lent us! Better sex! command To your defence my more religious hand, At sword or pen; yours was the nobler birth, For you of man were made, man but of earth— The sun of dust; and though your sin did breed His fall, again you raised him in your seed. Adam, in's sleep again full loss sustain'd, That for one rib a better half regain'd, Who, had he not your blest creation seen In Paradise, an anchorite had been. Why in this work did the creation rest, But that Eternal Providence thought you best Of all his six days' labour? Beasts should do Homage to man, but man shall wait on you; You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such As Parians see in marble; skin more fair, More glorious head, and far more glorious hair; Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses Blush in your cheeks; a milder white composes Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his, Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

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If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell, You better us, do then our souls excel?

No. * * * * Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, You were the first ventured to pluck the tree; And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie, Let him dispute against that dares deny Your least commands; and not persuaded be, With Samson's strength and David's piety, To be your willing captives.

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Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes, Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent So subtle and so strong an argument, Will teach the stoic his affections too, And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

TO MY PICTURE.

When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plough Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head be snow; When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I, myself, in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my glass; Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen, Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin: Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.

Fair lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-glass; A stately forehead, smooth and high, And full of princely majesty; A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star; A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, Wherein both roses kindly meet; A cherry lip that would entice Even gods to kiss at any price; You think no beauty is so rare That with your shadow might compare; That your reflection is alone The thing that men must dote upon. Madam, alas! your glass doth lie, And you are much deceived; for I A beauty know of richer grace,— (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face. Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, And leave to lay your blame on me: If me your real substance move, When you so much your shadow love, Wise Nature would not let your eye Look on her own bright majesty; Which, had you once but gazed upon, You could, except yourself, love none: What then you cannot love, let me, That face I can, you cannot see.

'Now you have what to love,' you'll say, 'What then is left for me, I pray?' My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see: So either love shall gain his due, Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.