Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON THE INESTIMABLE CONTENT HE ENJOYS IN THE MUSES, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON THE INESTIMABLE CONTENT HE ENJOYS IN THE MUSES, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Go, sordid earth, and hope not to bewitch
Last Line: I might perchance get riches, and be poor.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Poverty


to those of his Friends that dehort him from Poetry.

Go, sordid earth, and hope not to bewitch
My highborn soul, that flies a nobler pitch!
Thou can'st not tempt her with adulterate show,
She bears no appetite that flags so low.
Should both the ladies spread their laps to me,
And court mine eyes too with their treasury,
My better will they never could entice;
Nor this with gold, nor that with all her spice.
For what poor things had these possessions shown,
When all were mine, but I were not mine own?
Others in pompous wealth their thoughts may please,
And I am rich in wishing none of these.
For (say) which happiness would you beg first,
Still to have drink, or never to have thirst?
No servants on my beck attendant stand,
Yet are my passions all at my command;
Reason within me shall sole ruler be,
And every sense shall wear her livery,
Lord of myself in chief; when they that have
More wealth, make that their lord, which is my slave.
Yet I as well as they (with more content)
Have in myself a household government.
My intellectual soul hath there possest
The steward's place to govern all the rest,
When I go forth, my eyes two ushers are,
And dutifully walk before me bare.
My legs run footmen by me, go or stand:
My ready arms wait close on either hand:
My lips are porters to the dangerous door:
And either ear a trusty auditor.
And when abroad I go, fancy shall be
My skilful coachman, and shall hurry me
Through heaven and earth, and Neptune's wat'ry plain,
And in a moment drive me back again.
The charge of all my cellar, thirst, is thine;
Thou butler art, and yeoman of my wine.
Stomach the cook, whose dishes best delight,
Because their only sauce is appetite.
My other cook, digestion; where to me
Teeth carve, and palate will the taster be.
And the two eyelids, when I go to sleep,
Like careful grooms my silent chamber keep.
Where lest a cold oppress my vital part,
A gentle fire is kindled by the heart.
And lest too great a heat procure my pain,
The lungs fan wind to cool those parts again.
Within the inner closet of my brain
Attend the nobler members of my train.
Invention master of my mint grows there,
And memory my faithful treasurer.
And though in others 'tis a treacherous part,
My tongue is secretary to my heart.
And then the pages of my soul and sense,
Love, anger, pleasure, grief, concupiscence,
And all affections else, are taught t' obey
Like subjects, not like favourites to sway.
This is my manor-house, and men shall see
I here live master of my family.
Say, then, thou man of wealth, in what degree
May thy proud fortunes overbalance me?
Thy many barks plough the rough ocean's back;
And I am never frighted with a wrack.
Thy flocks of sheep are numberless to tell,
And with one fleece I can be cloth'd as well,
Thou hast a thousand several farms to let,
And I do feed on ne'er a tenant's sweat.
Thou hast the commons to enclosure brought;
And I have fix'd no bound to my vast thought.
Variety is sought for to delight
Thy witty and ambitious appetite,
Three elements, at least, dispeopled be,
To satisfy judicious gluttony.
And yet for this I love my commons here
Above the choicest of thy dainty cheer.
No widow's curse enters a dish of mine;
I drink no tears of orphans in my wine.
Thou mayst perchance to some great office come,
And I can rule a commonwealth at home,
And that pre-eminence enjoy more free,
Than thou putt'st up with vain authority.
What boots it him a large command to have
Whose every part is some poor vice's slave?
Which over him as proudly lords it there
As o'er the rustic he can domineer.
Whilst he poor swains doth threat, in his own eyes
Lust and concupiscence do tyrannise.
Ambition racks his heart with jealous fear,
And bastard flattery captivates his ear.
He on posterity may fix his care,
And I can study on the times that were.
He stands upon a pinnacle to show
His dangerous height, whilst I sit safe below.
Thy father hoards up gold for thee to spend,
When death will play the office of a friend,
And take him hence, which yet he thinks too late:
My nothing to inherit is a fate
Above thy birthright, should it double be;
No longing expectation tortures me.
I can my father's reverend head survey,
And yet not wish that every hair were grey.
My constant genius says, I happier stand,
And richer in his life, than in his land.
And when thou hast an heir that for thy gold
Will think each day makes thee a year too old,
And ever gaping to possess thy store,
Conceives thy age to be above fourscore,
'Cause his is one-and-twenty, and will pray
The too slow hours to haste, and every day
Bespeak thy coffin, cursing every bell
That he hears toll, 'cause 'tis another's knell
(And justly at thy life he may repine,
But his is but a wardship during thine).
Mine shall have no such thoughts. If I have one,
He shall be more a pupil than a son;
And at my grave weep truth, and say death's hand,
That bountifully unto thine gave land,
But robb'd him of a tutor. Cursed store!
There is no piety but amongst the poor.
Go, then: confess which of us fathers be
The happier made in our posterity:
I in my orphan that hath nought beside
His virtue, thou in thy rich parricide?
Thou several artists dost employ to show
The measure of thy lands, that thou mayest know
How much of earth thou hast: while I do call
My thoughts to scan how little 'tis in all.
Thou hast thy hounds to hunt the timorous hare,
The crafty fox, or the more noble deer;
Till at a fault, perchance, thy lordship be,
And some poor city varlet hunt for thee.
For 'tis not poor Actaeon's fault alone:
Hounds have devour'd more masters, sure, than one;
Whilst I, the while, pursuing my content,
With the quick nostrils of a judgment, scent
The hidden steps of nature, and there see
Your game maintain'd by her antipathy,
Thou hast a hawk, and to that height doth fly
Thy understanding, if it soar so high:
While I my soul with eagle's pinions wing.
To stoop at heaven, and in her talons bring
A glorious constellation, sporting there
With him whose belt of stars adorns the sphere.
Thou hast thy landskips, and the painters try
With all their skill to please thy wanton eye.
Here shadowy groves, and craggy mountains there;
Here rivers headlong fall, there springs run clear;
The heavens' bright rays through clouds must azure show,
Circled about with Iris' gaudy bow.
And what of this? I real heavens do see,
True springs, true groves, whilst yours but shadows be.
Nor of your household-stuff so proudly boast,
Compos'd of curiosity and cost.
Your two best chambers are unfurnished,
Th' inner and upper room, the heart and head.
But you will say: The comfort of a life
Is in the partner of your joys, a wife!
You may have choice of brides: you need not woo
The rich, the fair; they both are proffer'd you.
But what fond virgin will my love prefer,
That only in Parnassus jointure her?
Yet thy base match I scorn; an honest pride
I harbour here that scorns a market-bride.
Neglected beauty now is priz'd by gold;
And sacred love is basely bought and sold.
Wives are grown traffic, marriage is a trade,
And when a nuptial of two hearts is made.
There must of moneys too a wedding be,
That coin as well as men may multiply.
O human blindness! had we eyes to see,
There is no wealth to valiant poetry!
And yet what want I heaven or earth can yield?
Methinks I now possess th' Elysian field.
Into my chest the yellow Tagus flows,
While my plate-fleet in bright Pactolus rows.
Th' Hesperian Orchard's mine; mine, mine is all:
Thus am I rich in wealth poetical.
Why strive you, then, my friends, to circumvent
My soul, and rob me of my best content?
Why out of ignorant love counsel you me
To leave the Muses and my poetry?
Which should I leave, and never follow more,
I might perchance get riches, and be poor.





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