led
  Unto the chimney of her head;
  The next thing that my Muse descries,
  Is the two Mill-pits of her Eyes,
  Mill-pits whose depth no plum can sound,
  For there the God of Love was drown’d,
  On either side there hangs a Souse,
  And Ear I mean keeps open house,
  An Ear which always there did dwell,
  And so the Head kept sentinel,
  Which there was placed to descry,
  If any danger there was nigh,
  But surely danger there was bred
  Which made them so keep off the head;
  Something for certain caus’d their fears,
  Which made them so to hang their ears;
  But hang her ears; Thalia seeks
  To suck the bottle of her cheeks, &c.

* * * * *

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

This Famous Poet was born at Houghton in Northampton-shire, and was first bred in Westminster-School, then Fellow in Trinity-Colledge in Cambridge; He was one of such a pregnant Wit, that the Muses may seem not only to have smiled, but to have been tickled at his Nativity, such the festivity of his Poems of all sorts.  Yet was he also sententiously grave, as may appear by many of his Writings, not only in his Necessary Precepts, but also in several other of his Poems; take one instance in the conclusion of his Commendatory Verses to Mr. Feltham, on his excellent Book of Resolves.

  ’Mongst thy Resolves, put my Resolves in too;
  Resolve who will, this I resolve to do,
  That should my Errors chuse anothers line
  Whereby to write, I mean to live by thine.

His extraordinary indulgence to the too liberal converse with the multitude of his applauders, drew him to such an immoderate way of living, that he was seldom out of Gentlemens company, and as it often happens that in drinking high quarrels arise, so there chanced some words to pass betwixt Mr. Randolf and another Gentleman, which grew to be so high, that the Gentleman drawing his Sword, and striking at Mr. Randolph, cut off his little finger, whereupon, in an extemporary humour, he instantly made these Verses: 

  Arithmetick nine digits and no more
  Admits of, then I have all my store;
  But what mischance hath tane from my Lefthand,
  It seems did only for a cypher stand,
  Hence, when I scan my Verse if I do miss,
  I will impute the fault only to this,
  A fingers loss, I speak it not in sport,
  Will make a Verse a foot too short.

That he was of a free generous disposition, not regarding at all the Riches of the World, may be seen in the first Poem of his Book, speaking of the inestimable content he enjoyed in the Muses, to those of his friends which dehorted him from Poetry.

  Go sordid earth, and hope not to bewitch
  My high born Soul, which flies a nobler pitch;
  Thou canst not tempt her with adulterate show,
  She bears no appetite that flags so low, &c.