Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, UPON A VERY DEFORMED GENTLEWOMAN, BUT OF A VOICE INCOMPARABLY SWEET, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

UPON A VERY DEFORMED GENTLEWOMAN, BUT OF A VOICE INCOMPARABLY SWEET, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I chanc'd sweet lesbia's voice to hear
Last Line: Whilst she hath tongue, or I have eyes.
Subject(s): Physical Disabilities; Voices; Handicapped; Handicaps; Physically Challenged; Cripples


I CHANC'D sweet Lesbia's voice to hear:
O, that the pleasure of the ear
Contented had the appetite;
But I must satisfy the sight;
Where such a face I chanc'd to see,
From which, good Lord, deliver me!
Is't not profane, if I should tell
I thought her one of those that fell
With Lucifer's apostate train
Yet did her angel's voice retain?
A cherubin her notes descri'd:
A devil everywhere beside.
Ask the dark woods, and they'll confess
None did such harmony express
In all their bow'rs from May to June,
Yet ne'er was face so out of tune.
Her virginal-teeth false time did keep,
Her wrinkled forehead went too deep
Lower than gammut sunk her eyes,
'Bove Ela though her nose did rise.
I'll trust musicians now, that tell
Best music doth in discords dwell.
Her airs entic'd the gentle quire
Of birds to come, who all admire,
And would with pleasure longer stay,
But that her looks frights them away.
Which for a good Priapus goes,
And well may serve to scare the crows.
Her voice might tempt th' immortal race;
But let her only show her face,
And soon she might extinguish thus
The lusting of an incubus.
So have I seen a lute o'erworn,
Old and rotten, patch'd and torn,
So ravish with a sound, and bring
A close so sweet to every string,
As would strike wonder in our ears,
And work an envy in the spheres.
Say, monster strange, what may'st thou be?
Whence shall I fetch thy pedigree?
What but a panther could beget
A beast so foul, a breath so sweet?
Or thou of Syren's issue art,
If they be fish the upper part.
Or else blind Homer was not mad
Then, when he sung Ulysses had
So strange a gift from Aeolus,
Who odour-breathing Zephyrus
In several bottles did enclose;
For (certain) thou art one of those.
Thy looks, where other women place
Their chiefest pride, is thy disgrace:
The tongue, a part which us'd to be
Worst in thy sex, is best in thee,
Were I but now to choose my dear,
Not by my eye, but by my ear,
Here would I dote; how shall I woo
Thy voice, and not thy body too?
Then all the brood I get of thee,
Would nightingales and cygnets be:
Cygnets betimes their throats to try,
Born with more music than they die.
Say, Lesbia, say, what god will bless
Our loves with so much happiness?
Some women are all tongue; but O !
Why art not thou, my Lesbia, so?
Thy looks do speak thee witch; one spell
To make thee but invisible,
Or die! resign thyself to death,
And I will catch thy latest breath;
But that the nose will scarce (I fear)
Find it so sweet as did the ear.
Or if thou wouldst not have me coy,
As was the self-enamour'd boy,
Turn only voice, an echo prove --
Here, here, by heav'n, I'll fix my love,
If not, you gods, to ease my mind,
Or make her dumb, or strike me blind;
For grief and anger in me rise,
Whilst she hath tongue, or I have eyes.





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