Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A CHARACTER, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A CHARACTER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou cousin to great madams, and allied
Last Line: Thou think'st thyself th' art all, and I think neither.


THOU cousin to great madams, and allied
To all the beauties that are ladified!
Thou eagle of the realm, whose eyes can see
The invisible plots of foreign policy!
Thou great and unknown learning of thy nation,
Made not by study but by inspiration!
The Court, the State, the schools together be
By th' ears, and sight, and scratch, and all for thee.
When I behold thee cringe in some fair hall,
And scrape proportions mathematical,
Varying thy mouth, as 'twere by magic spell,
To circle, oval, square, and triangle,
And take a virgin by the ivory hand,
Minting words to her none can understand
But in a vision, and some verse repeat
So well enchanted, none the sense can get,
Till they have conjur'd, in lines strange and many,
To find what spirit it has, if it have any.
To see thy feet (though nature made them splay)
Screw in the toes to dance and force away
To make smooth measure, as might justly vaunt
Thou art turn'd monsieur of an elephant.
Thy mother, sure, going to see some sport,
Tilting or masque, conceiv'd thee in the Court.
But when I view thee gravely nod, and spit
In a grave posture, shake the head, and fit
Plots to bring Spain to England, and confine
King philip's Indies unto Middleton's mine;
When I read o'er thy comments sagely writ
On the currantoes, and with how much wit
Thy profound aphorisms do expound to us
The Almanacs and Gallobelgicus;
When I conceive what news thou wilt bring o'er
When thou return'st with thy ambassador,
What slops the Switzer wears to hide his joints:
How French, and how the Spaniard, truss their points,
How ropes of onions at Saint Omers go,
And whether turks be Christians, yea or no --
Then I believe one in deep points so able
Was surely got under the council table;
But when I hear thee of Celarent write,
In Ferio and Baralypton fight,
Methinks my then prophetic soul durst tell
Thou must be born at Aristotle's well.
But shall I tell thee, friend, how thy blest fate
By chance hath made thy name so fortunate?
The statesman thinks thou hast too much o' th' Court,
The courtier thinks thy sager parts do sort
Best for the State; as for the ladies, they
Pos'd with the medley of thy language, say
Th' art a mere scholar, and the scholar swears
Thou art of any tribe rather than theirs.
One thinks thee this, one that, a third thinks either:
Thou think'st thyself th' art all, and I think neither.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net