Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ECLOGUE TO MASTER JONSON, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ECLOGUE TO MASTER JONSON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Under this beech why sitt'st thou here so sad
Last Line: Hesperus leading forth his beauteous herd?
Subject(s): Jonson, Ben (1572-1637); Poetry & Poets


Tityrus.

UNDER this beech why sitt'st thou here so sad,
Son Damon, that was erst a jovial lad?
These groves were wont to echo with the sound
Of thy shrill reed, while every nymph danc'd round.
Rouse up thy soul; Parnassus Mount stands high,
And must be climb'd with painful industry.

Damon.

You, father, on his forked top sit still,
And see us panting up so steep a hill;
But I have broke my reed, and deeply swore
Never with wax, never to joint it more.

Tityrus.

Fond boy, 'twas rashly done: I meant to thee
Of all the sons I have, by legacy
To have bequeath'd my pipe. Thee, thee of all
I meant it should her second master call.

Damon.

And do you think I durst presume to play
Where Tityrus had worn his lip away?
Live long thyself to tune it; 'tis from thee,
It has not from itself such harmony.
But if we ever such disaster have
As to compose our Tityrus in his grave;
Yonder, upon yon aged oak, that now
Old trophies bears on every sacred bough,
We'll hang it up a relic; we will do it,
And learned swains shall pay devotion to it.

Tityrus.

Can'st thou farewell unto the Muses bid?
Then bees shall loathe the thyme, the new-wean'd kid
Browse on the buds no more; the teeming ewes
Henceforth the tender fallows shall refuse.

Damon.

I by those ladies now do nothing set;
Let 'em for me some other servant get.
They shall no more be mistresses of mine,
No, though my pipe had hope to equal thine --
Thine, which the floods have stopp'd their course to hear;
To which the spotted lynx hath lent an ear.
Which while the several echoes would repeat,
The music has been sweet, the art so great
That Pan himself, amaz'd at thy deep airs,
Sent thee of his own bowl to drown thy cares.
Of all the gods, Pan doth the pipe respect:
The rest unlearned pleasures more affect.
Pan can distinguish what thy raptures be
From Bavius' loose, lascivious minstrelsy,
Or Maevius' windy bagpipe -- Maevius, he
Whose wit is but a tavern timpany.
If ever I flock of my own do feed,
My fattest lambs shall on his altar bleed.

Tityrus.

Two altars I will build him, and each year
Will sacrifice two well-fed bullocks there:
Two that have horns, that, while they butting stand,
Strike from their feet a cloud of numerous sand.
But what can make thee leave the Muses, man,
That such a patron hast as mighty Pan?
Whence is this fury? Did the partial ear
Of the rude vulgar, when they late did hear
Egon and thee contend which best should play,
Him victor deem, and give thy kid away?
Does Amaryllis cause this high despair?
Or Galatea's coyness breed thy care?

Damon.

Neither of these: the vulgar I contemn.
Thy pipe not always, Tityrus, wins with them:
And as for love, in sooth I do not know
Whether he wears a bow and shafts, or no.
Or did I, I a way could quickly find
To win the beauteous Galatea's mind,
Or Amaryllis. I to both could send
Apples that with Hesperian fruit contend:
And on occasion could have quickly guess'd
Where two fair ringdoves built their amorous nest.

Tityrus.

If none of these, my Damon, then a-reed,
What other cause can so much passion breed?

Damon.

Father, I will; in those indulgent ears
I dare unload the burden of my fears.
The reapers, that with whetted sickles stand,
Gathering the falling ears i' th' other hand,
Though they endure the scorching summer's heat,
Have yet some wages to allay their sweat;
The lopper that doth fell the sturdy oak,
Labours, yet has good pay for every stroke;
The ploughman is rewarded: only we
That sing are paid with our own melody.
Rich churls have learnt to praise us, and admire,
But have not learn't to think us worth the hire.
So toiling ants, perchance, delight to hear
The summer music of the grasshopper,
But after rather let him starve with pain,
Than spare him from their store one single grain.
As when great Juno's beauteous bird displays
Her starry tail, the boys do run and gaze
At her proud train; so look they nowadays
On poets, and do think, if they but praise
Or pardon what we sing, enough they do:
Ay, and 'tis well if they do so much, too.
My rage is swell'd so high I cannot speak it,
Had I Pan's pipe, or thine, I now should break it!

Tityrus.

Let moles delight in earth, swine dunghills rake,
Crows prey on carrion, frogs a pleasure take
In slimy pools, and niggards wealth admire;
But we, whose souls are made of purer fire,
Have other aims. Who songs for gain hath made,
Has of a liberal science framed a trade.
Hark how the nightingale in yonder tree,
Hid in the boughs, warbles melodiously
Her various music forth, while the whole quire
Of other birds flock round, and all admire!
But who rewards her? will the ravenous kite
Part with her prey to pay for her delight.
Or will the foolish, painted, prattling jay
(Now turn'd a hearer) to requite her play
Lend her a straw? or any of the rest
Fetch her a feather when she builds her nest?
Yet sings she ne'er the less, till every den
Do catch at her last notes. And shall I then
His fortunes, Damon, 'bove my own commend,
Who can more cheese into the market send?
Clowns for posterity may cark and care,
That cannot outlive death but in an heir!
By more than wealth we propagate our names,
That trust not to successions, but our fames.
Let hidebound churls yoke the laborious ox,
Milk hundred goats, and shear a thousand flocks,
Plant gainful orchards, and in silver shine,
Thou of all fruits shouldst only prune the vine,
Whose fruit, being tasted, might erect thy brain
To teach some ravishing, high, and lofty strain;
The double birth of Bacchus to express,
First in the grape, the second in the press.
And therefore tell me, boy, what is't can move
Thy mind, once fixed on the Muses' love?

Damon.

When I contented liv'd by Cham's fair streams,
Without desire to see the prouder Thames,
I had no flock to care for, but could sit
Under a willow covert, and repeat
Those deep and learned lays, on every part
Grounded on judgment, subtlety, and art,
That the great tutor to the greatest king,
The shepherd of Stagira us'd to sing --
The shepherd of Stagira, that unfolds
All Nature's closet, shows whate'er it holds:
The matter, form, sense, motion, place, and measure
Of everything contain'd in her vast treasure.
How elements do change; what is the cause
Of generation; what the rule and laws
The orbs do move by; censures every star;
Why this is fix'd and that irregular;
Knows all the heavens, as if he had been there,
And help'd each angel turn about her sphere.
The thirsty pilgrim travelling by land,
When the fierce Dog-star doth the day command,
Half-chok'd with dust, parch'd with the soultry heat,
Tir'd with his journey, and o'ercome with sweat,
Finding a gentle spring at her cool brink,
Doth not with more delight sit down and drink,
Than I record his songs: we see a cloud,
And fearing to be wet, do run and shroud
Under a bush, when he would sit and tell
The cause that made her mystic womb to swell;
Why it sometimes in drops of rain doth flow,
Sometimes dissolves herself in flakes of snow.
Nor gaz'd he at a comet, but would frame
A reason why it wore a beard of flame.
Ah, Tityrus! I would with all my heart,
Even with the best of my carv'd mazers part
To hear him, as he us'd divinely show
What 'tis that paints the divers-colour'd bow:
Whence thunders are discharg'd, whence the winds stray,
What foot through heaven hath worn the Milky Way.
And yet I let this true delight alone,
Call'd thence to keep the flock of Corydon.
Ah! woe is me, another's flock to keep!
The care is mine; the master shears the sheep!
A flock it was that would not keep together;
A flock that had no fleece when it came hither.
Nor would it learn to listen to my lays,
For 'twas a flock made up of several strays.
And now I would return to Cham, I hear
A desolation frights the Muses there.
With rustic swains I mean to spend my time;
Teach me there, father, to preserve my rhyme.

Tityrus.

To-morrow morning I will counsel thee,
Meet me at Faunus' beech; for now you see
How larger shadows from the mountains fall,
And Corydon doth Damon, Damon call.

Damon.

'Tis time my flock were in the fold,
More than high time. Did you not erst behold
How Hesperus above you clouds appear'd,
Hesperus leading forth his beauteous herd?





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