Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO MASTER FELTHAM, ON HIS BOOK OF RESOLVES, by THOMAS RANDOLPH Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: In this unconstant age, when all mens minds Last Line: Whereby to write, I mean to live by thine. Subject(s): Books; Felltham, Owen (1602-1668); Reading | ||||||||
IN this unconstant age, when all men's minds In various change strive to outvie the winds; When no man sets his foot upon the square, But treads on globes and circles; when we are The apes of fortune, and desire to be Resolved on as fickle wheels as she. As if the planets, that our rulers are, Made the soul's motion too irregular. When minds change oftener than the Greek could dream, That made the metempsychos'd soul his theme; Yea, oft to beastly forms -- when (truth to say) Moons change but once a month, we twice a day. When none resolves but to be rich and ill, Or else resolves to be irresolute still. In such a tide of minds that every hour Do ebb and flow: by what inspiring power, By what instinct of grace I cannot tell, Dost thou resolve so much, and yet so well? While foolish men, whose reason is their sense, Still wandering in the world's circumference: Thou holding passion's reins with strictest hand, Dost firm and fixed in the centre stand! Thence thou art settled: others, while they tend To rove about the circle, find no end. Thy book I read, and read it with delight, Resolving so to live as thou dost write. And yet (I guess) thy life thy book produces, And but expresses thy peculiar uses, Thy manners' dictate: thence thy writing came. So Lesbians by their works their rules do frame, Not by the rules the work. Thy life had been Pattern enough, had it of all been seen, Without a book; books make the difference here, In them thou liv'st the same but everywhere, And this, I guess, though th' art unknown to me, By thy chaste writing; else it could not be (Dissemble ne'er so well) but here and there Some tokens of that plague would soon appear. Oft lurking in the skin, a secret gout In books would sometimes blister, and break out. Contagious sins, in which men take delight, Must needs infect the paper when they write. But let the curious eyes of Lynceus look Through every nerve and sinew of this book, Of which 'tis full: let the most diligent mind Pry thorough it, each sentence he shall find Season'd with chaste, not with an itching salt, More savouring of the lamp than of the malt. But now too many think no wit divine, None worthy life, but whose luxurious line Can ravish virgin's thoughts; and is it fit To make a pander or a bawd of wit? But tell 'em of it, in contempt they look, And ask in scorn, if you would geld the book. As if th' effeminate brain could nothing do, That should be chaste, and yet be masculine too! Such books as these (as they themselves indeed Truly confess) men do not praise but read. Such idle books, which if perchance they can Better the brain, yet they corrupt the man. Thou hast not one bad line so lustful bred, As to dye maid or matron's cheek in red. Thy modest wit and witty honest letter Make both at once my wit and me the better. Thy book a garden is, and helps us most To regain that which we in Adam lost. Where on the tree of knowledge we may feed, But such as no forbidden fruits doth breed. Whose leaves like those whence Eve her coat did frame, Serve not to cover, but to cure our shame. Fraught with all flowers, not only such as grows To please the eye, or to delight the nose, But such as may redeem lost healths again, And store of hellebore to purge the brain. Such as would cure the surfeit man did take From Adam's apples, such as fain would make Man's second paradise, in which should be The fruits of life, but no forbidden tree. It is a garden -- ha! I thus did say; And maids and matrons blushing ran away. But, maids, re-enter these chaste pleasing bowers, Chaste matrons, here gather the purest flowers. Fear not, from this pure garden do not fly, In it doth no obscene Priapus lie. This is an Eden, where no serpents be To tempt the woman's imbecility. These lines' rich sap the fruit to heaven doth raise; Nor doth the cinnamon-bark deserve less praise. I mean, the style being pure, and strong and round; Not long, but pithy; being short-breath'd, but sound, Such as the grave, acute, wise Seneca sings -- That best of tutors to the worst of kings. Not long and empty; lofty, but not proud; Subtle, but sweet; high, but without a cloud. Well-settled, full of nerves -- in brief'tis such, That in a little hath comprised much. Like the Iliad in a nutshell. And I say Thus much, for style; though truth should not be gay In strumpets' glittering robes, yet ne'ertheless She well deserves a matron's comeliness. Being too brave, she would our fancies glut, But we should loathe her, being too much the slut, The reasonable soul from heaven obtain'd The best of bodies; and that man hath gain'd A double praise, whose noble virtues are Like to the face, in soul and body fair. Who then would have a noble sentence clad In russet-threadbare words, is full as mad As if Apelles should so fondly dote, As to paint Venus in old Baucis' coat. They err that would bring style so basely under: The lofty language of the law was thunder. The wisest 'pothecary knows 'tis skill Neatly to candy o'er the wholesome pill. Best physic then, when gall with sugar meets, Temp'ring absinthian bitterness with sweets. Such is thy sentence, such thy style: being read, Men see them both together happ'ly wed, And so resolve to keep them wed, as we Resolve to give them to posterity. 'Mongst thy resolves put my resolves in too; Resolve whos' will, thus I resolve to do -- That should my errors choose another's line Whereby to write, I mean to live by thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO SONNETS: 1 by DAVID LEHMAN THE ILLUSTRATION?ÇÖA FOOTNOTE by DENISE LEVERTOV FALLING ASLEEP OVER THE AENEID by ROBERT LOWELL POETRY MACHINES by CATE MARVIN LENDING LIBRARY by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY FAIRIES' SONG by THOMAS RANDOLPH ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD [TO HASTEN HIM INTO COUNTRY] by THOMAS RANDOLPH |
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