I have a mistress for perfection, rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice.
And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.

I touch her like my beads, with devout care,
And come into my courtships as my prayer.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastly as the morning dews kiss flowers.
Go, wanton lover, spare thy sighs and tears,
Put on thy livery which thy dotage wears,
And call it love; where heresy gets in,
Zeal's but a coal to kindle greater sin.
We wear no flesh, but one another greet,
As blessed souls in separation meet.

Looking into my breast, her form I find
That like my guardian angel keeps my mind
From rude attempts: and when afflictions stir,
I calm all passions with one thought of her.

Nor is this barren love; one noble thought
Begets another, and that still is brought
To bed of more; virtues and grace increase,
And such a numerous issue ne'er can cease,
Where children, though great blessings, only be
Pleasures repriv'd to some posterity.

Beasts love like men, if men in lust delight,
And call that love which is but appetite.
When essence meets with essence, and souls join
In mutual knots, that's the true nuptial twine;
Such, lady, is my love, and such is true,

All other love is to your sex, not you."

The lines upon his picture," turn a very obvious thought into a fine moral lesson.

"When age hath made me what I am not now,

And
every wrinkle tells me where the plough
Of time hath furrowed; when an ice shall flow.
Through every vein, and all my head be snow:
When death displays his coldness in my cheek,
And I myself in my own picture seek,
Not finding what I am, but what I was;
In doubt which to believe, this or my glass:

Yet though I alter, this remains the same
As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame,
And first complexion; here will still be seen
Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin:
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye,
The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye.
Behold what frailty we in man may see,

Whose shadow is less given to change than he."

If we had space, we should certainly quote his "Ode to Mr. Antony Stafford, to hasten him into the country." It was at the house of this gentleman that our poet died, and perhaps these were the last lines he wrote in London. They tell of weariness, disgust, and impatience for quiet and innocence, and a warm anticipation of once more tasting the pure joys of a country life. But we must turn to the last poem in the first part," In the praise of women in general," and make room for our dramatic extracts.

"He is a parricide to his mother's name,

And with an impious hand murders her fame,
That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write
Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite

The milk they lent us; better sex, command

Το

your defence my more religious hand

At sword, or pen; yours was the nobler birth,
For you of man were made, man but of earth,
The son of dust; and though your sin did breed
His fall, again you rais'd him in your seed:
Adam in's sleep a gainful loss sustain'd
That for one rib a better self regain'd;
Who had he not your blest creation seen,
An anchorite in Paradise had been.
Why in this work did the creation rest,
But that eternal Providence thought you best
Of all his six days' labour; beasts should do
Homage to man, but man should wait on you.
You are of comlier sight, of daintier touch,
A tender flesh, a colour bright, and such
As Parians see in marble, skin more fair,
More glorious head, and far more glorious hair,
Eyes full of grace and quickness, purer roses
Blush in your cheeks, a milder white composes
Your stately fronts, your breath more sweet than his
Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

Your skins are smooth, bristles on theirs do grow
Like quills of porcupines, rough wool doth flow
O'er all their faces; you approach more near
The form of angels, they like beasts appear:
If, then, in bodies, where the soul do dwell,
You better us, do then our souls excel?
No, we in souls equal perfection see,
There can in them nor male nor female be.

Virtue sure

Were blind as fortune, should she choose the poor
Rough cottage man to live in, and despise

To dwell in you the stately edifice.

Thus you are prov'd the better sex, and we
Must all repent that in our pedigree

We chose the father's name, where should we take
The mother's, a more honour'd blood 'twould make,
Our generation sure and certain be,

And I'd believe some faith in heraldry.

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise

Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes,
Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent
So subtle and so strong an argument,

Will teach the Stoic his affection too,

And call the Cynic from his tub to woo."

We will only add to this a simile, which we separate from its context for the sake of the happiness of its language.

"So I at Charing-Cross have beheld one,
A statue cut out of the Parian stone,
To figure great Alcides: which, when well
The artist saw it was not like to sell,
He takes his chisel, and away he pares
Part of his sinewy neck, shaving the hairs
Off his rough beard and face, smoothing the brow,
And making that look amorous which but now
Stood wrinkled with his anger; from his head
He poles the shaggy locks, that had o'erspread
His brawny shoulders with a fleece of hair,
And works instead more gentle tresses there,
And thus his skill, exactly to express,
Soon makes a Venus of a Hercules."

And also the following amusing verses, on

a subject that

may come home to the business and bosoms of some of our readers.

"Hark! reader, if thou never yet hadst one,
I'll shew the torments of a Cambridge Dun.
He rails where'er he comes, and yet can say
But this, that Randolph did not keep his day.
What? can I keep the day, or stop the sun
From setting, or the night from coming on ?
Could I have kept days, I had chang'd the doom
Of times and seasons, that had never come.
These evil spirits haunt me every day,
And will not let me eat, study, or pray.

I am so much in their books, that 'tis known
I am too seldom frequent in
my own.
What damage given to my doors might be
If doors might actions have of battery?
And when they find their coming to no end,
They dun by proxy, and their letters send,
In such a style as I could never find
In Tully's long, or Seneca's short wind.

The "

Good Master Randolph, pardon me, I pray,
If I remember, you forget your day.
I kindly dealt with you, and it would be
Unkind in you, not to be kind to me.
You know, Sir, I must pay for what I have,
My creditors will be paid; therefore I crave
Pay me as I pay them, Sir, for one brother
Is bound in conscience to pay another.
Besides, my landlord would not be content
If I should dodge with him for's quarter's rent,
My wife lies in, too, and I needs must pay
The midwife, least the fool be cast away.
And 'tis a second charge to me, poor man,
To make the new-born babe a Christian.
Besides, the churching, a third charge will be,
In butter'd haberdine and frummety.
Thus hoping you will make a courteous end,
I rest (I would thou wouldst) your loving friend."

Parley with his Purse," has a similar burden, and is written in a similar strain.

"Purse, who'll not know you have a poet's been,

When he shall look and find no gold herein?

What respect (think you) will there now be shown
To this foul nest, when all the birds are flown?
Unnatural vacuum, can your emptiness

Answer to some slight questions, such as these?
How shall my debts be paid? or can my scores
Be clear'd with verses to my creditors?
Hexameter's no sterling, and I fear

What the brain coins, goes scarce for current there.
Can metre cancel bonds? is here a time

Ever to hope to wipe out chalk with rhyme?

Or if I now were hurrying to the jail,

Are the nine Muses held sufficient bail?
Would they to any composition come,
If we should mortgage our Elysium,
Tempe, Parnassus, and the golden streams
Of Tagus and Pactolus, those rich dreams
Of active fancy? Can our Orpheus move
Those rocks and stones, with his best strains of love?
Should I (like Homer) sing in lofty tones

To them Achilles, and his Myrmidons;
Hector, and Ajax, are but sergeant's names,
They relish bay-salt 'bove the epigrams
Of the most season'd brain, nor will they be
Content with ode, or paid with elegy."

We now turn to the dramas, a very cursory perusal of which will satisfy any one, that that department of poetry is not, whatever it might have been, much indebted to Randolph. They are entirely of a comic description, and much too servilely imitated from the ancients, and, on the whole, partake much more of the nature of satire than the drama. The characters are strongly contrasted, but they are rather abstract personifications, than the eidola of substantial flesh and blood. There is a pastoral drama, called Amyntas, which possesses as few of the charms of truth and reality as that of Tasso, and is much its inferior in graceful beauty. The piece of highest merit is the " Muses' Looking-Glass," which hardly can be called a drama, though written for the stage. It contains a great number of contrasted portraits of the extremes of the virtues and vices of morality, which are worked into a slender frame-work, like that of the Rehearsal, and such pieces. It is from this that all our extracts will be taken, but they are such rich and striking pieces of portraiture, that they well deserve the space allotted to them. We shall first quote the preliminary scenes,