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TO ROBERT RANDOLPH, ON THE PUBLISHING OF HIS BROTHER'S POEMS, by                    
First Line: We thank you, worthy sir, that 'tis our hap
Last Line: He gave the world the plays, and you the show.
Subject(s): Randolph, Thomas (1605-1634)


WE thank you, worthy sir, that 'tis our hap
To praise even Randolph now without a clap,
And give our suffrage yet, though not our voice,
To show the odds betwixt his fame and noise;
Whose only modesty we could applaud,
That seldom durst presume to blush abroad;
And bear his vast report, and setting forth
His virtues, grow a suff'rer of his worth;
Was scarce his own acquaintance, and did use
To hear himself reported but as news;
So distant from himself, that one might dare
To say those two were ne'er familiar;
Whose polish'd fancy hath so smoothly wrought,
That 'tis suspected, and might tempt our thought
To guess it spent in every birth, so writ
Not as the gift but legacy of his wit:
Whose unbid brain drops so much flowing worth,
That others are deliver'd, he brought forth;
That did not course in wit, and beat at least
Ten lines in fallow to put up one jest;
Which still prevents our thought, we need not stay
To th' end, the epigram is in the way.
The town might here grow poet; nay, 'tis said
Some mayors could hence as eas'ly rhyme as read;
Whose loss we so much weep, we cannot hear
His very comedies without a tear.
And when we read his mirth, are fain to pray
Leave from our grief to call the work a play:
Where fancy plays with judgment, and so fits
That 'tis enough to make a guard of wits.
Where lines fulfil themselves, and are so right
That but a combat's mention is a fight.
His phrase does bring to pass, and he has lent
Language enough to give the things event.
The lines pronounce themselves, and we may say
The actors were but echoes of the play.
Methinks the book does act, and we not doubt
To say it rather enters than comes out;
Which even you seem to envy, whose device
Has made it viler even by its price,
And taught its value, which we count so great
That, when we buy it cheapest, we but cheat.
And when upon one page we bless our look,
Howe'er we bargain, we have gain'd the book.
Freshmen in this are forc'd to have their right,
And 'tis no purchase, though 'twere sold in spite.
So do we owe you still, that let us know
He gave the world the plays, and you the show.





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