Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MASTER FELTHAM, ON HIS BOOK OF RESOLVES, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MASTER FELTHAM, ON HIS BOOK OF RESOLVES, by                 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.





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