Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A COMPLAINT AGAINST CUPID, THAT HE NEVER MADE HIM IN LOVE, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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A COMPLAINT AGAINST CUPID, THAT HE NEVER MADE HIM IN LOVE, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: How many of thy captives (love) complain
Last Line: If so, be merciful, and punish me.
Subject(s): Love


How many of thy captives (Love) complain
Thou yok'st thy slaves in too severe a chain?
I have heard 'em their poetic malice show,
To curse thy quiver, and blaspheme thy bow.
Calling thee boy and blind, threatening the rod,
Profanely swearing that thou art no god;
Or (if thou be) not from the starry place,
But born below, and of the Stygian race.
But yet these atheists, that thy shafts dislike,
Thou canst be friendly to, and deign to strike.
This on his Cloris spends his thoughts and time;
That chaunts Corinna in his amorous rhyme:
A third speaks raptures, and hath gained a wit
By praising Caelia, else had miss'd of it;
But I, that think there can no freedom be
(Cupid) so sweet as thy captivity --
I, that could wish thy chains, and live content
To wear them -- not my gyves, but ornament:
I, that could any ransom pay to thee,
Not to redeem, but sell my liberty --
I am neglected. Let the cause be known.
Art thou a niggard of thy arrows grown,
That wert so prodigal? or dost thou please
To set thy pillars up with Hercules,
Weary of conquest? or should I disgrace
Thy victories if I were deign'd a place
Amongst thy other trophies? none of these.
Witness thy daily triumphs! who but sees
Thou still pursuest thy game from high to low?
No age, no sex can 'scape thy powerful bow.
Decrepit age, whose veins and bones may be
An argument against philosophy,
To prove an emptiness, that has no sense
Left but his feeling, feels thy influence,
And dying dotes: not babes thy shafts can miss;
How quickly infants can be taught to kiss!
As the poor apes being dumb these words would borrow --
I was born to-day, to get a babe to-morrow.
Each ploughman thy propitious wounds can prove,
Tilling the earth, and wishing 'twere his love.
Am I invulnerable? is the dart
Rebeaten which thou levell'st at my heart?
Ill rest my parent's bones, if they have done
As Tethis once did to her god-like son
The great Achilles, dipp'd in Stygian lake.
Though I am so, Cupid, thy arrows take:
Try where I am not proof, and let me feel
Thy archery, if not i' th' heart, i' th' heel.
Perchance my heart lies there! Who would not be
A coward to be valiant made by thee.
I cannot say thy blindness is the cause,
That I am barr'd the freedom of thy laws:
The wretched outlaw of thy mother's court,
That place of comfort, paradise of sport.
For they may say, that say thou blind canst be,
Eagles want eyes, and only moles can see,
Not Argus with so many lights did shine,
For each fair lady's sparkling eyes are thine.
Think'st thou, because I do the Muses love,
I in thy camp would a faint soldier prove?
How came Musaeus and Anacreon then
Into thy troops? how came Tibullus' pen
Amongst thy spears, and how came Ovid (say)
To be enroll'd great general in thy pay?
And doubt'st thou me? suspect you I will tell
The hidden mysteries of your Paphian cell
To the strait-lac'd Diana? or betray
The secrets of the night unto the day?
No, Cupid, by thy mother's doves I swear,
And by her sparrows, 'tis an idle fear.
If Philomel descend to sport with me,
Know I can be (great Love) as dumb as she,
Though she hath lost her tongue; in such delights
All should be like her, only talk by nights.
Make me thy priest; if poets truth divine,
I'll make the Muses wanton; at thy shrine
They all shall wait, and Dian's self shall be
A votress to thy mother's nunnery:
Where zeal with nature shall maintain no strife,
Where none swear chastity and single life.
To Venus' nuns an easier oath is read,
She breaks her vow that keeps her maidenhead.
Reject not then your Flamen's ministry;
Let me but deacon in thy temples be,
And see how I shall touch my powerful lyre,
And more inspir'd with thine than Phoebus' fire,
Chaunt such a moving verse as soon should frame
Desire of dalliance in the coyest dame,
Melting to amorous thoughts her heart of stone,
And force her to untruss her virgin zone.
Is Lucrece or Penelope alive?
Give me a Spartan matron, Sabine wife,
Or any of the vestals hither call,
And I will make them be thy converts all:
Who, like good proselytes, more in heart than show
Shall to thy orgies all so zealous go,
That Thais shall, nor Helen such appear;
As if they only love's precisians were.
But now my muse dull, heavy numbers sings:
Cupid, 'tis thou alone giv'st verse her wings.
The laurel wreath I never shall obtain,
Unless thy torch illuminate my brain,
Love laurel gives; Phoebus as much can say,
Had not he lov'd, there had not been the bay.
Why is my presentation then put by?
Who is't that my induction dares deny?
Can any lady say I am unfit?
If so, I'll sue my Quare Impedit.
I'm young enough, my spirits quick and good:
My veins swell high with kind and active blood.
Nor am I marble; when I see an eye
Quick, bright and full, ray'd round with majesty;
I feel my heart with a strange heat opprest,
As 'twere a lightning darted through my breast.
I long not for the cherries on the tree,
So much as those which on a lip I see.
And more affection bear I to the rose
That in a cheek than in a garden grows.
I gaze on beauteous virgins with delight,
And feel my temper vary at the sight.
I know not why, but warmer streams do glide
Thorough my veins -- sure 'tis a wanton tide.
But you perchance esteem my love the less,
Because I have a foolish bashfulness,
A shamefaced rose you find within my face,
Whose modest blush frights you from my embrace?
That's ready now to fall; if you'll but deign
To pluck it once, it shall not grow again.
Or do you therefore cast my love away,
Because I am not expert in the play?
My skill's not known till it be ventur'd on;
I have not Aristotle read alone;
I am in Ovid a proficient too;
And if you'd hear my lecture, could to you
Analyse all his art with so much more
Judgment and skill than e'er 'twas taught before,
That I might be chief master, he (dull fool)
The under-usher in the Cyprian school;
For (petty pedagogue, poor pedant) he
First writ the art, and then the remedy:
But I could set down rules of love so sure,
As should exceed art, and admit no cure.
Pictures I could invent, Love, were I thine,
As might stand copies unto Aretine.
And such new dalliance study, as should frame
Variety in that which is the same.
I am not then uncapable (great Love),
Wouldst thou my skill but with one arrow prove.
Give me a mistress in whose looks to joy,
And such a mistress (Love) as will be coy,
Not easily won, though to be won in time;
That from her niceness I may store my rhyme:
Then in a thousand sighs to thee I'll pay
My morning orisons, and every day
Two thousand groans, and count these amorous prayers
I make to thee, not by my beads, but tears.
Besides, each day I'll write an elegy,
And in as lamentable poetry
As any Inns-of-Court man, that hath gone
To bind an Ovid with a Littleton.
But (Love) I see you will not entertain
Those that desire to live amidst your train;
For death and you have got a trick to fly
From such poor wretches as do wish you nigh.
You scorn a yielding slave; and plainly show it:
Those that contemn your power you make to know it.
And such am I. I slight your proud commands;
I mar'l who put a bow into your hands:
A hobby-horse, or some such pretty toy --
A rattle would befit you better, boy.
You conquer gods and men? Here stand I free
That will acknowledge no supremacy
Unto your churlish godhead. Does it cry?
Give it a plum to still its deity!
Good Venus, let it suck, that it may keep
Less brawling: gentle nurse, rock it asleep,
Or if you be past baby, and are now
Come to wear breeches, must we then allow
Your boyship leave to shoot at whom you please?
No, whip it for such wanton tricks as these.
If this do anger you, I'll send a bee
Shall to a single duel challenge thee,
And make you to your mam run, and complain,
The little serpent stung thee once again.
Go hunt the butterflies; and if you can
But catch 'em, make their wings into a fan.
We'll give you leave to hunt and sport at them,
So you let men alone. But I blaspheme.
Great Love, I fear I have offended thee?
If so, be merciful, and punish me.





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