IONSONVS VIRBIVS: OR, THE MEMORIE OF BEN: JOHNSON REVIVED BY THE FRIENDS OF THE MƲSES.

‘NOLI ALTVM SAPERE’

LONDON, Printed by E. P. for Henry Seile, and are to be sold at his shop, at the Tygers Head in Fleetstreet, over-against Saint Dunstans Church. 1638.

THE PRINTER TO THE READER.

' TIs now about sixe moneths since the most learned and judicious Poet, B. IOHN­SON, became a subject for these Elegies. The time interjected betweene his death and the publishing of these, shewes that so great an Ar­gument ought to be consider'd, before handled; not that the Gentlemens affections were lesse readie to grieve, but their judgements to write. At length the loose Papers were consign'd to the hands of a Gentleman, who [Page] truly honor'd Him (for he knew why he did so) To his care you are behol­ding that they are now made yours. And he was willing to let you know the value of what you have lost, that you might the better recommend what you have left of Him, to your posteritie.

Farewell.

An Eglogue on the Death of BEN- IOHNSON, betweene Melybaeus and Hylas.

MELYBEVS.
HYlas, the cleare day boasts a glorious Sunne,
Our Troope is ready, and our time is come:
That Fox who hath so long our Lambs destroi'd,
And daily in his prosperous rapine joy'd,
Is earth'd not farre from hence, old Aegons sonne,
Rough Corilas, and lusty Corydon,
In part the sport, in part revenge desire,
And both thy Tarrier and thy Aid require.
Haste, for by this, but that for thee wee staid,
The Prey-devourer had our prey bin made.
Hyl.
Oh! Melibaeus now I list not hunt,
Nor have that vigor as before I wont;
My presence will afford them no reliefe,
That Beast I strive to chase is only griefe.
Mel.
What meane thy folded Armes, thy downe-cast eyes,
Teares which so fast descend, and sighs which rise?
What meane thy words which so distracted fall,
As all Thy Loyes had now one funerall?
Cause for such griefe, can out retirements yeeld?
That followes Courts, but stoopes not to the field.
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Hath thy sterne step-dame to thy sire reveal'd
Some youthful act, which thou couldst wish conceal'd?
Part of thy Heard hath some close thiefe convey'd
From open pastures to a darker shade?
Part of thy flocke hath some fierce Torrent drown'd?
Thy harvest fail'd? or Amarillis frown'd?
Hyl.
Nor Love, nor Anger, Accident nor Thiefe,
Hath rais'd the waves of my unbounded griefe:
To cure this cause, I would provoke the ire
Of my fierce Step-dame or severer Sire,
Give all my Heards, Fields, Flocks, and all the grace,
That ever shone in Amarillis Face.
Alas, that Bard, that glorious Bard is dead,
Who when I whilome Cities visited,
Hath made them seeme, but houres which were full dayes,
Whilst he vouchsaft me his harmonious layes:
And when He liv'd, I thought the countrey th en
A torture, and no Mansion, but a Den.
Mel.
JOHNSON you meane, unlesse I much doe erre,
I know the Person by the Character.
Hyl.
You guesse aright, it is too truely so,
From no lesse spring could all these Rivers flow.
Mel.
Ah Hylas! then thy griefe I cannot call
A passion, when the ground is rationall.
I now excuse thy teares and sighs, though those
To deluges, and these to tempests rose:
Her great instructer gone, I know the Age
No lesse laments then doth the widdow'd stage,
And onely Vice and Folly, now are glad,
Our Gods are troubled, and our Prince is sad:
He chiefly who bestowes light, health and art,
Feeles this sharpe griefe pierce his immortall heart,
He his neglected Lire away hath throwne,
And wept a larger nobler Helicon,
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To finde his Hearbs, which to his wish prevaile,
For the lesse lov'd should his owne favorite faile:
So moan'd himselfe when Daphne he ador'd,
That arts relieving al, should faile their Lord:
Hyl.
But say, from whence in thee this knowledge springs,
Of what his favour was with Gods and Kings.
Mel.
Dorus, who long had known books, men, & townes,
At last the honour of our Woods and Downes,
Had often heard his Songs, was often fir'd
With their inchanting power, ere he retir'd,
And ere himselfe to our still groves he brought,
To meditate on what his Muse had taught:
Here all his joy was to revolve alone,
All that her Musicke to his soule had showne,
Or in all meetings to divert the streame
Of our discourse; and make his Friend his Theame,
And praising works which that rare Loome hath weav'd,
Impart that pleasure which he had receav'd,
So in sweet notes (which did all tunes excell,
But what he prais'd) I oft have heard him tell
Of His rare Pen, what was the use and price,
The Bayes of Vertue and the scourge of Vice:
How the rich ignorant he valued least,
Nor for the trappings would esteeme the beast:
But did our youth to noble actions raise,
Hoping the meed of his immortall praise:
How bright and soone His Muses morning shone,
Her Noone how lasting, and her Evening none:
How speech exceeds not dumbenesse, nor verse prose,
More then His verse the low rough rimes of those,
(For such his seene, they seem'd,) who highest rear'd,
Possest Parnassus ere his power appear'd:
Nor shall another Pen his fame dissolve,
Till we this doubtfull Probleme can resolve,
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Which in his workes we most transcendent see,
Wit, Iudgement, Learning, Art, or Industry,
Which Till is Never, so all jointly flow,
And each doth to an equall Torrent grow:
His Learning such, no Author old nor new,
Escapt his reading that deserv'd his view,
And such his Iudgement, so exact his Test,
Of what was best in Bookes, as what bookes best,
That had he joyn'd those notes his Labours tooke,
From each most prais'd and praise-deserving Booke,
And could the world of that choise Treasure boast,
It need not care though all the rest were lost:
And such his Wit, He writ past what he quotes,
And his Productions farre exceed his Notes:
So in his workes where ought inferred growes,
The noblest of the Plants engrafted showes,
That his adopted Children equall not,
The generous Issue his owne Braine begot:
So great his Art, that much which he did write,
Gave the wise wonder, and the Crowd delight,
Each sort as well as sex admir'd his Wit,
The Hees and Shees, the Boxes, and the Pit;
And who lesse lik't within, did rather chuse
To taxe their Iudgements then suspect his Muse,
How no spectator his chaste stage could call
The cause of any crime of his, but all
With thoughts and wils purg'd and amended rise,
From th' Ethicke Lectures of his Comedies,
Where the Spectators act, and the sham'd age
Blusheth to meet her follies on the stage;
Where each man finds some Light he never sought,
And leaves behind some vanitie he brought,
Whose Politicks no lesse the minds direct,
Then these the manners, nor with lesse effect,
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When his Majesticke Tragedies relate
All the disorders of a Tottering state,
All the distempers which on Kingdomes fall,
When ease, and wealth, and vice are generall,
And yet the minds against all feare assure,
And telling the disease, prescribe the Cure:
Where, as he tels what subtle wayes, what friends,
(Seeking their wicked and their wisht for ends)
Ambitious and luxurious Persons prove,
Whom vast desires, or mighty wants doth move,
The generall Frame, to say and undermine,
In proud Sejanus, and bold Cateline;
So in his vigilant Prince and Consuls parts,
He shewes the wiser and the nobler Arts,
By which a state may be unhurt, upheld,
And all those workes destroy'd, which hell would build.
Who (not like those who with small praise had writ,
Had they not cal'd in Iudgement to their Wit)
Vs'd not a tutoring hand his to direct,
But was sole Workeman and sole Architect:
And sure by what my Friend did daily tell,
If he but acted his owne part as well
As he writ those of others, he may boast,
The happy fields hold not a happier ghost.
Hyl.
Strangers will thinke this strange, yet he (deare Youth,
Where most he past beleefe, fell short of Truth:
Say on, what more he said, this gives reliefe,
And though it raise my cause, it bates my griefe,
Since Fates decreed him now no longer liv'd,
I joy to heare him by thy Friend reviv'd.
Mel.
More he would say, and better, (but I spoile
His smoother words with my unpolisht stile)
And having told what pitch his worth attain'd,
He then would tell us what Reward it gain'd;
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How in an ignorant, and learn'd age he swaid,
(Of which the first he found, the second made)
How He, when he could know it, reapt his Fame,
And long out-liv'd the envy of his Name:
To him how daily flockt, what reverence gave,
All that had wit, or would be thought to have,
Or hope to gaine, and in so large a store,
That to his Ashes they can pay no more,
Except those few who censuring, thought not so,
But aim'd at glory from so great a foe:
How the wise too, did with meere wits agree,
As Pembroke, Portland, and grave Aubigny;
Nor thought the rigidst Senator a shame,
To contribute to so deserv'd a fame:
How great Eliza, the Retreate of those,
Who weake and injur'd her protection chose,
Her Subjects joy, the strength of her Allies,
The feare and wonder of her Enemies,
With her judicious favours did infuse
Courage and strength into his yonger Muse:
How learned JAMES, whose praise no end shall finde,
(But still enjoy a Fame pure like his Mind)
Who favour'd quiet, and the Arts of Peace,
(Which in his Halcion dayes found large encrease)
Friend to the humblest if deserving Swaine,
Who was himselfe a part of Phaebus Traine,
Declar'd great JOHNSON worthiest to receive
The Garland which the Muses hands did weave,
And though his Bounty did sustaine his dayes,
Gave a more welcome Pension in his praise:
How mighty Charles amidst that Weighty care,
In which three Kingdomes as their Blessing share,
Whom as it tends with ever watchfull eyes,
That neither Power may force, nor Art surprise.
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So bounded by no shore, graspes all the Maine,
And farre as Neptune claimes, extends his reigne.
Found still some Time to heare and to admire,
The happy sounds of his Harmonious Lire,
And oft hath left his bright exalted Throne,
And to his Muses feet combin'd His owne:
In his Maskes.
As did his Queene, whose Person so disclos'd
A brighter Nimph then any Part impos'd,
When she did joyne, by an Harmonious choise,
Her gracefull Motions to his Powerfull voice:
How above all the rest was Phaebus fir'd
With love of Arts, which he himselfe inspir'd,
Nor oftner by his Light our Sence was chear'd,
Then he in Person to his sight appear'd,
Nor did he write a line but to supply,
With sacred Flame the Radiant God was by.
Hyl.
Though none I ever heard this last rehearse,
I saw as much when I did see his verse.
Mel.
Since He, when living could such Honors have,
What now will Piety pay to his grave?
Shall of the rich (whose lives were low and vile,
And scarce deserv'd a Grave, much lesse a Pile)
The monuments possesse an ample Roome,
And such a Wonder lye without a Tombe?
Raise thou him one in Verse, and There relate
His Worth, thy griefe, and our deplored state,
His great Perfections our great losse recite,
And let them meerely weepe who cannot write,
Hyl.
I like thy saying, but oppose thy choise,
So great a Taske as this requires a Voice
Which must be heard, and listned to, by all,
And Fames owne Trumpet but appeares too small,
Then for my slender Reede to sound his Name,
Would more my Folly then his praise proclaime,
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And when you wish my weakenesse sing his Worth,
You charge a Mouse to bring a Mountaine forth:
I am by Nature form'd, by Woes made Dull,
My Head is emptier then my Heart is full;
Griefe doth my Braine impaire, as Teares supply,
Which makes my face so moist, my Pen so dry:
Nor should this Work proceed from Woods and Downes,
But from the Academies, Courts, and Townes;
Let Digby, Carew, Killigrew, and Maine,
Godolphin, Waller, that inspired Traine,
Or whose rare Pen beside deserves the grace,
Or of an equall, or a neighbouring Place,
Answer thy wish, for none so fit appeares
To raise his Tombe, as who are left his Heires:
Yet for this Cause no labour need be spent,
Writing his Workes, he built his Monument.
Mel.
If to obey in this, thy Pen be loth,
It will not seeme thy weaknesse, but thy sloth:
Our Townes prest by our Foes invading Might,
Our ancient Druids and young Virgins fight,
Employing feeble Limbes to the best use;
So JOHNSON dead, no Pen should plead excuse:
For Elegies, howle all who cannot sing,
For Tombes bring Turfe, who cannot Marble bring,
Let all their forces mix, joyne Verse to Rime,
To save his Fame from that Invader, Time;
Whose Power, though his alone may well restraine,
Yet to so wisht an end, no Care is vaine;
And Time, like what our Brookes act in our sight,
Oft sinkes the neightie, and upholds the Light:
Besides, to this, thy paines I strive to move
Lesse to expresse his glory then thy Love:
Not long before his Death, our woods he meant
To visit, and descend from Thames to Trent,
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Meete with thy Elegy his Pastorall,
And rise as much as he vouchsaft to fall:
Suppose it chance no other Pen doe joine
In this Attempt, and the whole worke be thine.
When the fierce fire the rash-Boy kindled, raign'd,
The whole world suffer'd; Earth alone complain'd:
Suppose that many more intend the same,
More taught by Art, and better knowne to Fame,
To that great Deluge which so farre destroid,
The Earth her Springs, as Heaven his Showrs emploid;
So may who highest Markes of Honour weares,
Admit meane Partners in this Flood of Teares:
So oft the Humblest joine with Loftiest Things,
Nor onely Princes weep the fate of Kings.
Hyl.
I yeeld, I yeeld, Thy words my thoughts have fir'd,
And I am lesse perswaded then inspir'd;
Speech shall give Sorrow vent, and that Releefe,
The Woods shall eccho all the Citties griefe:
I oft have verse on meaner Subjects made,
Should I give Presents and leave Debts unpaid?
Want of Invention here is no excuse,
My matter I shall find, and not produce,
And (as it fares in Crowds) I onely doubt,
So much would passe, that Nothing will get out,
Else in this Worke which now my Thoughts intend
I shall find nothing hard, but how to end:
I then but aske fit Time to smooth my Layes,
(And imitate in this the Pen I praise)
Which by the Subjects Power embalm'd, may last,
Whilst the Sun Light, the Earth doth shadowes cast,
And feather'd by those Wings fly among men,
Farre as the Fame of Poetry and BEN.
FALKLAND.

TO THE MEMORY OF BENIAMIN IOHNSON.

IF Romulus did promise in the fight
To love the Stator, if he held from flight
His men, a Temple, and perform'd his vow:
Why should not we, learn'd IOHNSON, thee allow
An Altar at the least? since by Thy aid,
Learning, that would have left us, ha's bin stay'd.
The Actions were different: that thing
Requir'd some marke to keep't from perishing;
But letters must bee quite defac'd before
Thy memory, whose care did them restore
BVCKHVRST.

TO THE MEMORY OF him who can never be forgotten, Master BENIAMIN JOHNSON.

HAd this bin for some meaner Poets Hearse,
I might have then observ'd the lawes of verse:
But here they faile, nor can I hope t'expresse
In Numbers, what the world grants Numberlesse;
Such are the Truths, we ought to speake of Thee,
Thou great refiner of our Poesie,
Who turn'st to gold that which before was lead;
Then with that pure Elixar rais'd the dead.
Nine Sisters who (for all the Poets lyes)
Had bin deem'd Mortall, did not JOHNSON rise
And with celestiall Sparkes (not stolne) revive
Those who could erst keep winged Fame alive:
T'was he that found (plac't) in the seat of wit,
Dull grinning Ignorance, and banish't it;
He on the prostituted Stage appeares
To make men heare, not by their eyes, but eares;
Who painted Vertues, that each one might know,
And point the man, that did such Treasure owe:
So that who could in JOHNSONS lines be high
Needed not Honours, or a Ribbon buy:
But vice he onely shew'd us in a glasse,
Which by reflection of those rayes that passe,
Retaines the figure lively, set before,
And that withdrawne, reflects at us no more;
[...]
[...]
So, he observ'd the like Decorum, when
He whipt the vices, and yet spar'd the men;
When heretofore, the vices onely note,
And signe from vertue as his party-coate,
When Devils were the last Men on the Stage,
And pray'd for plenty, and the present Age;
Nor was our English language, onely bound
To thanke him, for he Latin Horace found
(Who so inspir'd Rome, with his Lyricke song)
Translated in the Macaronicke toung,
Cloth'd in such raggs, as one might safely vow,
That his Maecenas, would not owne him now;
On him he tooke this pitty, as to cloth
In words, and such expression, as for both,
Ther's none but judgeth the exchange will come
To twenty more, then when he sold at Rome.
Since then, he made our Language pure and good,
And teach us speake, but what we understood,
We owe this praise to him, that should we joyne
To pay him, he were payd but with the coyne
Himselfe hath minted, which we know by this
That no words passe for currant now, but his;
And though He in a blinder age could change
Faults to perfections, yet 'twas farre more strange
To see (how ever times, and fashions frame)
His wit and language still remaine the same
In all mens mouths; Grave Preachers did it use
As golden Pills, by which they might infuse
Their Heavenly Physicke; Ministers of State
Their grave dispatches in his language wrate;
Ladies made cur'tsies in them, Courtiers, legs,
Physicians Bills, perhaps some Pedant begs
He may not use it, for he heares 'tis such,
As in few words, a man may utter much
Could I have spoken in his language too,
I had not said so much, as now I doe,
To whose cleare memory, I this tribute send
Who Dead's my wonder, Living was my Friend.
IOHN BEAUMONT, Baronet.

TO THE MEMORY OF M. BENIAMIN IOHNSON.

TO presse into the throng, where Wits thus strive
To make thy Lawrels fading Tombes survive,
Argues thy worth, their love, my bold desire,
Somewhat to sing, though but to fill the Quire:
But (Truth to speake) what Muse can silent be,
Or little say, that hath for Subject, Thee,
Whose Poems such, that as the Sphere of fire,
They warme insensibly, and Force inspire,
Knowledge, and wit infuse, mute tongues unlose,
And wayes not track't to write, and speake disclose.
But when thou put'st thy Tragique Buskin on,
Or Comique Socke of mirthfull Action,
Actors, as if inspired from thy hand,
Speake, beyond what they thinke, lesse, understand.
And thirsty Hearers wonder-strucken say,
Thy words make that a Truth, was meant a Play.
Folly, and braine-sicke Humors of the time,
Distempered Passion, audacious Crime,
Thy Pen so on the stage doth personate,
That ere men scarce begin to know, they hate
The Vice presented, and there lessons learne,
Virtue, from vicious Habits to discerne.
Oft have I seene Thee in a sprightly straine,
To lash a Vice, and yet no one complaine,
Thou threw'st the Inke of Malice from Thy Pen,
Whose aime was evill manners, not ill men.
Let then fraile parts repose, where solemne care
Of pious Friends, thee Pyramids prepare;
And take thou (BEN) from Verse a second breath,
Which shall create Thee new, and conquer Death.
S r. THO. HAWKINS.

Vpon BEN. IOHNSON.

I See that Wreath which doth the wearer arme
Gainst the quick stroakes of Thunder is no charme
To keepe off deaths pale dart: For (IOHNSON) then
Thou hadst beene number'd still with living men:
Times Sythe had feard thy Lawrell to invade,
Nor thee this Subject of our sorrow made.
Amongst those many Votaries that come
To offer up their Garlands at thy Tombe,
Whilst some more lofty Pens in their bright Ʋerse,
(Like glorious Tapers flaming on thy Herse)
Shall light the dull and thanklesse World to see,
How great a maime it suffers, (wanting thee;)
Let not thy learned shadow scorne, that I
Pay meaner Rites unto thy Memory:
And since I nought can adde but in desire,
Restore some sparks which leapt from thine owne fire.
What ends soever other Quils invite,
I can protest, it was no itch to write,
Nor any vaine ambition to be read,
But meerely love and justice to the dead,
VVhich rais'd my famelesse Muse; and caus'd her bring
These drops, as tribute throwne into that Spring,
To whose most rich and fruitfull head we owe
The purest streames of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth; Thou taughtst the ruder Age,
To speake by Grammer; and reformd'st the Stage:
Thy Comick ock induc'd such purged sense,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongst those soaring Wits that did dilate
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thy selfe was one
Helpt lift it up to such proportion,
That thus refin'd and roab'd it shall not spare
VVith the full Greeke or Latine to compare.
For what Tongue ever durst, but Ours, translate
Great Tullies Eloquence, or Homers State?
Both which in their unblemisht lustre shine,
From Chapmans Pen, and from thy CATILINE.
All I would aske for thee, in recompence
Of thy successfull toyle, and times expence
Is onely this poore boone: That those who can
Perhaps read French, or talke Italian,
Or doe the lofty Spaniard affect,
(To shew their skill in forreigne dialect)
Prove not themselves so unnat'rally wise
They therefore should their Mother-tongue despise:
(As if her Poets both for stile and witt,
Not equal'd, or not pass'd their best that writt)
Vntill by studying IOHNSON they have knowne
The heighth, and strength, and plentie of their owne.
Thus in what low earth, or neglected roome,
So ere thou sleepst, thy BOOKE shall be thy Tombe,
Thou wilt goe downe a happie Coarse, bestrew'd
VVith thine owne Flowres and feele thy selfe renew'd,
VVhilst thy immortall, never with'ring Bayes
Shall yearely flourish in thy Readers praise.
And when more spreading Titles are forgot,
Or, spight of all their Lead and Seare-cloth, rot;
Thou wrapt and shrin'd in thine owne sheets wilt lye
A Relique fam'd by all Posteritie.
HEN. KING.
MIght but this slender offering of mine,
Croud midst the sacred burden of thy shrine,
The neere acquaintance with thy greater name
Might stile me Wit, and privilege my Fame,
But I've no such ambition, nor dare sue
For the least Legacy of Wit, as due,
I come not t'offend duty, and transgresse
Affection, nor with bold presumption presse,
Midst those close mourners, whose nigh kin in verse,
Hath made the nere attendance of Thy herse,
I come in duty, not in pride, to show
Not what I have in store, but what I owe.
Nor shall My folly wrong Thy Fame, for we
Prize by the want of Wit, the losse of Thee.
As when the wearied Sunne hath stolne to rest,
And darknesse made the worlds unwelcome guest,
We groveling captives of the night, yet may
With fire and candle beget light, not day:
Now He whose name in Poetry controules,
Goes to converse with more refined Soules,
Like countrey Gazers in amaze we sit,
Admirers of this great Eclipse in Wit,
Reason and Wit We have to shew us Men,
But no hereditary beame of Ben,
Our knock't inventions may beget a sparke,
Which faints at th'least resistance of the darke,
Thine like the Fires high element was pure,
And like the same made not to burne, but cure,
When thy enraged Muse did chide o'th stage,
'Twas to reforme, not to abuse the Age,
But th'art requited ill, to have thy herse,
Stain'd by prophaner Parricides in verse;
Who make mortality, a guilt, and scould,
Meerely because Thou'dst offer to be old,
'Twas too unkinde a slighting of Thy name,
To thinke a ballad could confute Thy Fame,
Let's but peruse their Libels, and they'le be,
But arguments they understood not thee,
Nor I'st disgrace, that in Thee through age spent,
'Twas thought a crime not to be excellent:
For Me, Ile in such reverence hold thy Fame,
Ile but by Invocation use Thy Name,
Be thou propitious, Poetry shall know,
No Deity but Thee to whom I'le owe.
HEN. COVENTRY.

AN ELEGIE UPON BENIAMIN IOHNSON.

THough once high Statius o're dead Lucans hearse,
Would seeme to feare his owne Hexameters,
And thought a greater Honour then that feare,
He could not bring to Lucans sepulcher;
Let not our Poets feare to write of thee,
Greate JOHNSON King of English Poetry
In any English Verse, let none who e're,
Bring so much emulation as to feare:
But pay without comparing thoughts at all,
Their tribute verses to thy funerall;
Nor thinke what ere they write on such a name,
Can be amisse; If high, it fits Thy Fame:
If low, it rights Thee more, and makes men see,
That English Poetry is dead with Thee,
Which in Thy Genius did so strongly live,
Nor will I here particularly strive,
To praise each well composed piece of thine;
Or shew what judgement, Art and Wit did joyne
To make them up, but onely (in the way
That Famianus honour'd Virgill) say,
The Muse her selfe was link't so neere to thee,
Who ere saw one, must needs the other see,
And if in thy expressions ought seem'd scant,
Not thou, but Poetry it selfe did want,

AN ELEGIE ON BEN. IOHNSON.

I Dare not, learned Shade, bedew thy Hearse
With teares, unlesse that impudence in Verse
Would cease to be a sinne; and what were crime
In Prose, would be no injurie in Rime.
My thoughts are so below, I feare to act
A sinne, like their black envie, who detract;
As oft as I would character in speech
That worth, which silent wonder scarce can reach.
Yet, I that but pretend to learning, owe
So much to thy great fame, I ought to shew
My weakenesse in thy praise; to thus approve,
Although it be lesse wit, is greater love:
'Tis all our phancie aimes at; and our tongues
At best, will guiltie prove of friendly wrongs.
For, who would image out thy worth, great BEN,
Should first be, what he praises; and his Pen
Thy active braines should feed, which we can't have,
Unlesse we could redeeme Thee from the Grave.
The onely way that's left now, is to looke
Into thy Papers, to reade o're thy Booke;
And then remove thy phancies, there doth lye
Some judgement, where we cannot make, t'apply
Our reading: some, perhaps, may call this wit,
And thinke, we doe not steale, but onely fit
Thee to thy selfe, of all thy Marble weares,
Nothing is truly ours, except the teares.
O could we weepe like Thee! we might convay
New breath, and raise men from their Beds of Clay
Unto a life of fame; he is not dead,
Who by thy Muses hath beene buried.
Thrice happy those brave Heroes, whom I meet
Wrapt in thy writings, as their winding-sheet:
For, when the tribute unto Nature due,
Was payd, they did receive new life from you;
Which shall not be undated, since thy breath
Is able to immortall, after death.
Thus rescu'd from the dust, they did ne're see
True life, untill they were entomb'd by Thee.
You that pretend to Courtship, here admire
Those pure and active flames, Love did inspire:
And though he could have tooke his Mistresse eares,
Beyond fain'd sighs, false oaths, and forced teares;
His heat was still so modest, it might warme,
But doe the Cloystred Votarie no harme.
The face he sometimes praises, but the mind,
A fairer Saint, is in his Verse inshrin'd.
He that would worthily set downe his prayse,
Should studie Lines as loftie as his Playes.
The Roman Worthies did not seeme to fight
With braver spirit, then we see him write:
His Pen their valour equals; and that Age
Receives a greater glory from our Stage.
Bold Catiline, at once Romes hate and feare,
Farre higher in his storie doth appeare:
The flames those active Furies did inspire,
Ambition and Revenge, his better fire
Kindles afresh; thus lighted, they shall burne,
Till Rome to its first nothing doe returne.
Brave fall, had but the cause beene likewise good!
Had he so, for his Countrey, lost his blood!
Some like not Tully in his owne; yet while
All doe admire him in thy English stile,
I censure not; I rather thinke, that wee
May well his equall, thine we ne're shall see.
DUDLY DIGGS.

To THE IMMORTALITIE of my Learned Friend, M. IOHNSON.

I Parled once with Death, and thought to yeeld,
When thou advised'st me to keepe the field,
Yet if I fell, thou wouldst upon my Hearse,
Breath the reviving spirit of thy Verse.
I live, and to thy gratefull Muse would pay,
A Parallell of thanks, but that this day
Of thy faire Rights, through th' innumerous light,
That flowes from thy Adorers, seems as bright,
As when the Sun darts through his golden Haire,
His Beames Diameter into the Aire.
In vaine I then strive to encrease thy glory,
These Lights that goe before make dark my story.
Onely Ile say, Heaven gave unto Thy Pen
A Sacred power, Immortallizing men,
And thou dispensing Life immortally,
Do'st now but sabbatize from worke, not dye.
GEORGE FORTESCVE.

An ELEGIE UPON THE Death of BEN. JOHNSON, the most Excellent of English Poets:

WHat doth officious Fancie here prepare?
Be't rather this rich Kingdoms charge & care
To find a Virgin quarrie whence no hand,
E're wrought a Tombe on vulgar Dust to stand,
And thence bring for this worke Materials fit,
Great JOHNSON needs no Architect of Wit;
Who forc'd from Art, receiv'd from Nature more
Then doth survive Him, or e're liv'd before.
And Poets, with what veile so'ere you hide,
Your aime, 'twill not be thought your griefe, but pride
Which that your Cypresse never growth might want,
Did it neere his eternall Lawrell plant.
Heaven at the death of Princes, by the birth
Of some new starre, seemes to instruct the Earth,
How it resents our humane Fate. Then why
Didst thou Wits most triumphant Monarch dye
Without thy Comet? Did the Skye despaire
To teeme a Fire, bright as thy glories were?
Or is it by its Age, unfruitfull growne,
And can produce no light, but what is knowne,
A common Mourner, when a Princes fall
Invites a Starre t'attend the Funerall?
But those prodigious Sights onely create,
Talke for the Vulgar, Heaven before thy Fate.
That thou thy selfe might'st thy owne Dirges heare,
Made the sad stage close mourner for a yeere;
The stage, (which as by an instinct divine,
Instructed, seeing it's owne Fate in Thine,
And knowing how it owed it's life to Thee)
Prepar'd it selfe thy Sepulcher to be,
And had continued so, but that Thy Wit,
Which as the Soule, first animated it,
Still hovers here below, and nere shall dye,
Till Time be buried in eternity.
But You! whose Comicke labours on the stage,
Against the envy of a froward age
Hold combat! How will now your Vessels saile,
The Seas so broken and the winds so fraile,
Such Rocks, such shallowes threatning every where,
And Iohnson dead, whose Art your course might steare?
Looke up! where Seneca, and Sophocles,
Quicke Plautus, and sharpe Aristophanes,
Enlighten yon bright Orbe! Doth not your eye,
Among them, one farre larger fire, descry,
At which their lights grow pale? 'tis Iohnson, there
He shines your Starre who was your Pilot here.
W. ABINGTON.

Vpon BEN: IOHNSON, the most excellent of Comick POETS.

MIrror of Poets! Mirror of our Age!
Which her whol Face beholding on thy stage,
Pleas'd and displeas'd with her owne faults en­dures,
A remedy, like those whom Musicke cures,
Thou not alone those various inclinations,
Which Nature gives to Ages, Sexes, Nations,
Hast traced with thy All-resembling Pen,
But all that custome hath impos'd on Men,
Or ill-got Habits, which distort them so,
That scarce the Brother can the Brother know,
Is represented to the wondring Eyes,
Of all that see or read thy Comedies.
Who ever in those Glasses lookes may finde,
The spots return d, or graces of his minde;
And by the helpe of so divine an Art,
At leisure view, and dresse his nobler part.
Narcissus cozen'd by that flattering Well,
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,
Had here discovering the deform'd estate
Of his fond minde, preserv'd himselfe with hate,
But Vertue too, as well as Vice is clad,
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had
Beheld what his high Fancie once embrac'd,
Vertue with colours, speech and motion grac [...]d.
The sundry Postures of Thy copious Muse,
Who would expresse a thousand tongues must use,
Whose Fates no lesse peculiar then thy Art,
For as thou couldst all characters impart,
So none can render thine, who still escapes,
Like Prote us in variety of shapes,
Who was nor this nor that, but all we finde,
And all we can imagine in mankind.
E. WALLER.

Vpon the POET of His time, B. J: His honoured F. and F.

ANd is thy Glasse run out? is that Oile spent,
Which light to such tough sinewy labours lent?
Well BEN I now perceive that all the Nine,
Though they their utmost forces should combine,
Cannot prevaile 'gainst Nights three Daughters, but
One still will spinne, One Winde, the other Cut,
Yet in despight of Spindle, Clue, and Knife,
Thou in thy strenuous lines hast got a life,
Which like thy Bay shall flourish every Age,
While Socke or Buskin move upon the stage.
Sic Vaticinatur IA. HOWELL Ar.

AN OFFERTORY AT THE TOMBE OF THE FAMOVS POET BEN: IOHNSON.

IF Soules departed lately hence doe know
How we performe the duties that we owe
Their Reliques? will it not grieve thy spirit
To see our dull devotion? thy merit
Prophan'd by disproportiond Rites? thy Herse
Rudely defil'd with Our unpolish'd Verse?
Necessitie's our best excuse; 'tis in
Our understanding, not our will wee sin;
'Gainst which 'tis now in vaine to labour, wee
Did nothing know, but what was taught by Thee,
The routed Souldiers when their Captaines fall
Forget all order, that men cannot call
It properly a Battaile that they fight;
Nor wee ( Thou being dead) be said to write.
'Tis noise wee utter, nothing can be sung
By those distinctly that have lost their Tongue;
[...]
[...]
And therefore whatsoere the Subject be,
All Ʋerses now become thy ELEGIE:
For, when a livelesse Poeme shall bee read,
Th' afflicted Reader sighs, BEN: IONSON'S dead.
This is thy Glory, that no Pen can raise
A lasting Trophee in thy honour'd praise;
Since Fate (it seemes) would have it so exprest,
Each Muse should end with Thine, who was the best:
And but her flights were stronger and so high,
That Times rude hand cannot reach her glory,
An ignorance had spred this Age as great
As that which made thy learned MUSE so sweat,
And toyle to dissipate; untill (at length)
Purg'd by thy Art, it gain'd a lasting strength;
And now secur'd by thy all-powerfull Writt,
Can feare no more a like relapse of Witt:
Though (to Our griefe) we ever must despaire,
That any Age can raise Thee up an Heyre.
IOHN VERNON. è societ: In: Temp.
THe Muses fairest light in no darke time,
The Wonder of a learned Age; the Line
Which none can passe; the most proportion'd Witt,
To Nature, the best Judge of what was fit;
The deepest, plainest, highest, cleerest PEN;
The Voice most eccho'd by consenting Men,
The Soule which answer'd best to all well said
By others, and which most requitall made,
Tun'd to the highest Key of ancient ROME,
Returning all her Musique with his owne,
In whom with Nature, Studie claim'd a part,
And yet who to himselfe ow'd all his Art:
Heere lies BEN: IOHNSON, every Age will looke
With sorrow heere, with wonder on his BOOKE.
VVHo first reform'd our Stage with justest Lawes,
And was the first best Judge in your owne Cause?
Who (when his Actors trembled for Applause)
Could (with a noble Confidence) preferre
His owne, by right, to a whole Theater;
From Principles which he knew could not erre.
VVho to his FABLE did his Persons fitt,
VVith all the Properties of Art and Witt,
And above all (that could bee Acted) writt.
VVho publique Follies did to covert drive,
VVhich hee againe could cunningly retrive,
Leaving them no ground to rest on, and thrive.
Heere IONSON lies, whom had I nam'd before
In that one word alone, I had paid more
Then can be now, when plentie makes me poore.
I. Cl.

To the Memory of BEN. IOHNSON.

AS when the Ʋestall hearth went out, no fire
Lesse holy then the flame that did expire
Could kindle it againe: So at thy fall
Our Witt, great BEN, is too Apocryphall
To celebrate the losse, since tis too much
To write thy Epitaph, and not bee such.
What thou wert, like th'hard Oracles of old,
Without an extasie cannot bee told.
We must be ravisht first, Thou must infuse
Thy selfe into us both the Theame and Muse.
Else, (though wee all conspir'd to make thy Herse
Our Workes) so that 'thad beene but one great Ʋerse,
Though the Priest had translated for that time
The Liturgy, and buried thee in Rime,
So that in Meeter wee had heard it said,
Poetique dust is to Poetique laid:
And though that dust being Shakspears thou might'st have
Not his roome, but the Poet for thy grave;
So that, as thou didst Prince of Numbers dye
And live, so now thou mightst in Numbers lie,
'Twere fraile solemnitie; Ʋerses on Thee
And not like thine, would but kind Libels be;
And we, (not speaking thy whole Worth) should raise
Worse blots, then they that envied thy praise.
Indeed, thou need'st us not, since above all
Invention, thou wert thine owne Funerall.
Hereafter, when Time hath fed on thy Tombe,
Th' inscription worne out, and the Marble dumbe;
So that 'twould pose a Critick to restore
Halfe words, and words expir'd so long before.
When thy maym'd Statue hath a sentenc'd face,
And lookes that are the horror of the place,
That 'twill be learning, and Antiquitie,
And aske a SELDEN to say, this was Thee,
Thou'lt have a whole Name still, nor needst thou feare
That will be ruin'd, or lose nose, or haire.
Let others write so thin, that they can't be
Authors till rotten, no Posteritie
Can adde to thy Workes; th'had their whole growth then
When first borne, and came aged from thy Pen.
Whilst living thou enjoy'dst the fame and sense
Of all that time gives but the reverence.
When th'art of Homers yeares, no man will say
Thy Poems are lesse worthy, but more gray:
Tis Bastard-Poetry, and oth' false blood
Which can't without succession be good.
Things that will alwayes last, doe thus agree
With things eternall; th'at once perfect bee.
Scorne then their censures, who gav't out, thy Witt
As long upon a Comoedie did sit
As Elephants bring forth; and that thy blotts
And mendings tooke more time then Fortune plotts:
That such thy drought was, and so great thy thirst,
That all thy Playes were drawne at th' Mermaid first:
That the Kings yearely Butt wrote, and his Wine
Hath more right then thou to thy CATILINE.
Let such men keepe a diet, let their witt
Be rackt, and while they write, suffer a fitt:
When th'have felt tortures which out-paine the gout,
Such, as with lesse, the State drawes treason out;
Though they should the length of consumptions lie
Sicke of their verse, and of their Poem die,
[...]Twould not be thy worst Scoene, but would at last
Confirme their boastings, and shew made in hast.
He that writes well, writes quick, since the rule's true,
Nothing is slowly done, that's alwayes new.
So when thy FOXE had ten times acted beene,
Each day was first, but that 'twas cheaper seene.
And so thy ALCHYMIST plaid ore and ore,
Was new oth' Stage when 'twas not at the dore.
Wee, like the Actors did repeat, the Pit
The first time saw, the next conceiv'd thy Wit:
Which was cast in those forms, such rules, such Arts,
That but to some not halfe thy Acts were parts:
Since of some silken judgements we may say,
They fill'd a Boxe two houres, but saw no Play.
So that th' unlearned lost their money, and
Schollers sav'd onely, that could understand.
Thy Scoene was free from Monsters, no hard Plot
Call'd downe a God t'untie th'unlikely knot.
The Stage was still a Stage, two entrances
Were not two parts oth' World, disjoyn'd by Seas.
Thine were land-Tragedies, no Prince was found
To swim a whole Scoene out, then oth' Stage drown'd;
Pitch't fields, as Red-Bull wars, still felt thy doome,
Thou laidst no sieges to the Musique-Roome;
Nor wouldst allow to thy best Comoedies
Humours that should above the People rise:
Yet was thy language and thy stile so high,
Thy Socke toth' ancle, Buskin reacht toth' thigh;
And both so chast, so 'bove Dramatick cleane,
That we both safely saw, and liv'd thy Scene.
No foule loose line did prostitute thy wit,
Thou wrot'st thy Comoedies, didst not commit.
We did the vice arraignd not tempting heare,
And were made Judges, not bad parts byth eare.
For thou ev'n sinne didst in such words array,
That some who came bad parts, went out good play.
Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the Age
Still acted, which grew innocent from th' Stage.
Tis true thou hadst some sharpnesse, but thy salt
Serv'd but with pleasure to reforme the fault.
Men were laugh'd into vertue, and none more
Hated Face acted then were such before.
So did thy sting not bloud, but humours draw,
So much doth Satyre more correct then Law;
Which was not nature in thee, as some call
Thy teeth, who say thy wit lay in thy Gall.
That thou didst quarrell first, and then, in spight,
Didst 'gainst a person of such vices write:
That 'twas revenge, not truth, that on the Stage
Carlo was not presented, but thy Rage:
And that when thou in company wert met,
Thy meate tooke notes, and thy discourse was net.
Wee know thy free- veine had this innocence,
To spare the partie, and to brand th' offence.
And the just indignation thou wert in
Did not expose Shift, but his tricks and ginne.
Thou mightst have us'd th' old Comick freedome, these
Might have seene themselves plaid, like Socrates.
Like Cleon, Mammon might the Knight have beene,
If, as Greeke Authors, thou hadst turn'd Greeke spleene;
And hadst not chosen rather to translate
Their learning into English, not their rate:
Indeed this last, if thou hadst beene bereft
Of thy humanitie, might be cal'd Theft.
The other was not; whatsoere was strange
Or borrow'd in thee did grow thine by th' change.
Who without Latine helps had'st beene as rare
As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shakespeare were:
And like them, from thy native Stock could'st say,
Poets and Kings are not borne every day.

In the memory of the most Worthy BENIAMIN IOHNSON.

FAther of Poets, though thine owne great day
Struck from thy selfe, scornes that a weaker ray
Should twine in lustre with it: yet my flame,
Kindled from thine, flies upwards tow'rds thy Name.
For in the acclamation of the lesse
There's Piety, though from it no accesse.
And though my ruder thoughts make me of those,
Who hide and cover what they should disclose:
Yet, where the lustre's such, he makes it seene
Better to some, that drawes the veile betweene.
And what can more be hop'd, since that divine
Free filling spirit tooke its flight with thine?
Men may have fury, but no raptures now;
Like Witches, charme, yet not know whence, nor how.
And through distemper, grown not strong but fierce;
In stead of writings, onely rave in verse:
Which when by thy Lawes judg'd, 'twill be confes'd,
'Twas not to be inspir'd, but be posses'd.
Where shall we find a Muse like thine, that can
So well present and shew man unto man,
That each one finds his twin, and thinkes thy Art
Extends not to the gestures, but the heart?
Where one so shewing life to life, that we
Think thou taughtst Custome, and not Custome thee?
Manners, that were Themes to thy Scenes still flow
In the same streame, and are their comments now:
These times thus living o're thy Modells, we
Thinke them not so much wit, as prophesie:
And though we know the character, may sweare
A Sybill's finger hath bin busie there.
Things common thou speakst proper, which though known
For publique, stampt by thee grow thence thine owne:
Thy thoughts so order'd, so expres'd, that we
Conclude that thou didst not discourse, but see
Language so master'd, that thy numerous feet,
Laden with genuine words, doe alwaies meet
Each in his art; nothing unfit doth fall,
Shewing the Poet, like the wiseman, All:
Thine equall skill thus wresting nothing, made
Thy penne seeme not so much to write as trade.
That life, that Venus of all things, which we
Conceive or shew, proportion'd decencie,
Is not found scattred in thee here and there,
But, like the soule, is wholly every where.
No strange perplexed maze doth passe for plot,
Thou alwayes dost unty, not cut the knot.
Thy Lab'rinths doores are open'd by one thread
Thattyes, and runnes through all that's don or said.
No power comes down with learned hat and rod,
Wit onely, and contrivance is thy god.
'Tis easie to guild gold: there's small skill spent
Where ev'n the first rude masse is ornament:
Thy Muse tooke harder metalls, purg'd and boild,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beate and toyld,
Sifted the drosse, fil'd roughnes, then gave dresse,
Vexing rude subjects into comlinesse.
Be it thy glory then, that we may say,
Thou run'st where th' foote was hindred by the way.
Nor dost thou poure out, but dispence thy veine,
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertaine:
Not like our wits, who into one piece do
Throw all that they can say, and their friends too,
Pumping themselves, for one Termes noise so dry,
As if they made their wills in Poetry.
And such spruce compositions presse the stage,
When men transcribe themselves, and not the age.
Both sorts of Playes are thus like pictures showne,
Thine of the common life, theirs of their owne.
Thy modells yet are not so fram'd, as we
May call them libells, and not imag'rie:
No name on any Basis: 'tis thy skill
To strike the vice, but spare the person still:
As he, who when he saw the Serpent wreath'd
About his sleeping sonne, and as he breath'd,
Drinke in his soule, did so the shoot contrive,
To kill the beast, but keepe the child alive.
So dost thou aime thy darts, which, ev'n when
They kill the poisons, do but wake the men.
Thy thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy launcings better then anothers cure;
And justly too: for th' age growes more unsound
From the fooles balsam, then the wisemans wound.
No rotten talke brokes for a laugh; no page
Commenc'd man by th' instructions of thy stage;
No bargaining line there; no provoc'tive verse;
Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;
No need to make good count'nance ill, and use
The plea of strict life for a looser Muse:
No Woman rul'd thy quill: we can descry
No verse borne under any Cynthia's eye:
Thy Starre was judgement onely, and right sense,
Thy selfe being to thy selfe an influence.
Stout beauty is thy grace: Sterne pleasures do
Present delights, but mingle horrours too:
Thy Muse doth thus like Joves fierce girle appeare,
With a faire hand, but grasping of a Speare.
Where are they now that cry, thy Lamp did drinke
More oyle then th' Authour wine, while he did thinke?
We do imbrace their slaunder: thou hast writ
Not for dispatch but fame; no market wit:
'Twas not thy care, that it might passe and sell,
But that it might endure, and be done well:
Nor would'st thou venture it unto the eare,
Untill the file would not make smooth, but weare:
Thy verse came season'd hence, and would not give;
Borne not to feed the Authour, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choycer Judges rise a strife,
To make thee read as Classick in thy life.
Those that doe hence applause, and suffrage begge,
'Cause they can Poems forme upon one legge,
Write not to time, but to the Poets day:
There's difference between fame, and sodaine pay.
These men sing Kingdomes falls, as if that fate
Us'd the same force t' a Village, and a State:
These serve Thyestes bloody supper in,
As if it had onely a sallad bin:
Their Catilines are but Fencers, whose fights rise
Not to the fame of battell, but of prize.
But thou still put'st true passions on; dost write
With the same courage that try'd Captaines fight;
Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without losse of wings;
Smooth, yet not weake, and by a thorough-care,
Bigge without swelling, without painting faire:
They wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,
Are not wits, but materialls of wit.
What though thy searching wit did rake the dust
Of time, and purge old mettalls of their rust?
Is it no labour, no art, thinke they, to
Snatch Shipwracks from the deepe, as Dyvers do?
And rescue Jewells from the covetous sand,
Making the Seas hid wealth adorne the Land?
What though thy culling Muse did rob the store
Of Greeke, and Latine gardens to bring ore
Plants to thy native soyle? Their vertues were
Improv'd farre more, by being planted here.
If thy Still to their essence doth refine
So many drugges, is not the water thine?
Thefts thus become just works: they and their grace
Are wholly thine: thus doth the stampe and face
Make that the Kings, that's ravisht from the mine:
In others then 'tis oare, in thee 'tis coine.
Blest life of Authours, unto whom we owe
Those that we have, and those that we want too:
Th' art all so good, that reading makes thee worse,
And to have writ so well's thine onely curse.
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate
That servile base dependance upon fate:
Successe thou ne'r thoughtst vertue, nor that fit,
Which chance, and th' ages fashion did make hit;
Excluding those from life in after-time,
Who into Po'try first brought luck and rime:
Who thought the peoples breath good ayre: sty'ld name
What was but noise; and getting Briefes for fame
Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence
Made commendation a benevolence:
Thy thoughts were their owne Lawrell, and did win
That best applause of being crown'd within.
And though th' exacting age, when deeper yeeres
Had interwoven snow among thy haires,
Would not permit thou shouldst grow old, cause they
Nere by thy writings knew thee young; we may
Say justly, they're ungratefull, when they more
Condemn'd thee, cause thou wert so good before:
Thine Art was thine Arts blurre, and they'll confesse
Thy strong perfumes made them not smell thy lesse.
But, though to erre with thee be no small skill,
And we adore the last draughts of thy Quill:
Though those thy thoughts, which the now queasie age,
Doth count but clods, and refuse of the stage,
Will come up Porcelaine-wit some hundreds hence,
VVhen there will be more manners, and more sense;
'Twas judgement yet to yeeld, and we afford
Thy silence as much fame, as once thy word:
VVho like an aged oake, the leaves being gone,
VVast food before, art now religion;
Thought still more rich, though not so richly stor'd,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.
Great soule of numbers, whom we want and boast;
Like curing gold, most valu'd now th' art lost;
VVhen we shall feed on refuse offalls, when
VVe shall from corne to akornes turne agen;
Then shall we see that these two names are one,
JOHNSON and Poetry, which now are gone.
VV. CARTWAIGHT.

An Elegy upon BEN: IOHNSON.

NOw thou art dead, and thy great wit and name
Is got beyond the reach of Chance or Fame,
Which none can lessen, nor we bring enough
To raise it higher, through our want of stuffe;
I find no roome for praise, but Elegie,
And there but name the day that thou didst dye.
That men may know thou didst so, for they will
Hardly beleeve disease or age could kill
A body so inform'd, with such a soule,
As, like thy verse, might Fate it selfe controule.
But thou art gon, and we like greedy Heires,
That snatch the fruit of their dead Fathers cares,
Begin t'enquire what meanes thou left'st behind
For us pretended Heires unto thy mind.
And my-selfe not the latest 'gan to looke
And found the Inventory in thy Booke;
A stock for writers to set up withall:
That out of thy full Comedies, their small
And slender wits by vexing much thy writ
And their owne braines, may draw good saving wit.
And when they shall upon some credit pitch,
May be thought well to live, although not rich.
Then for your Songsters, Masquers, what a deal
We have? enough to make a Common-weale:
Of dauncing Courtiers, as if Poetry
Were made to set out their activity.
Learning great store for us to feed upon,
But little fame; that with thy selfe is gon,
And like a desperate debt, bequeath'd, not paid
Before thy death has us the poorer made.
Whil'st we with mighty labour it pursue.
And after all our toile, not find it due.
IO: RUTTER.

To the Memory of immortall BEN.

TO write is easie; but to write of thee
Truth: will be thought to forfeit modesty.
So farre beyond conceipt, thy strengths appeare;
That almost all will doubt, what all must heare.
For, when the World shall know, that Pindar's height,
Plautus his wit, and Seneca's grave weight,
Horace his matchlesse Nerves, and that high phrase
Wherewith great Lucan doth his Readers maze,
Shall with such radiant illustration glide,
(As if each line to life were property'd)
Through all thy Workes; And like a Torrent move,
Rowling the Muses to the Court of Jove,
Wits generall Tribe, will soone intitle thee
Heire to Apollo's ever verdant Tree.
And 'twill by all concluded be, the Stage
Is widowed now; was bed-rid by thy age.
Aswell as Empire, wit his Zenith hath,
Nor can the rage of time, or tyrants wrath
Encloud so bright a flame: But it will shine
In spight of envie, till it grow divine.
As when Augustus raign'd, and warre did cease,
Romes bravest wits were usher'd in by peace:
So in our Halcyon dayes, we have had now
Wits, to which, all that after come, must bow.
And should the Stage compose her selfe a Crowne
Of all those wits, which hitherto sh'as knowne:
Though there be many that about her brow
Like sparkling stones, might a quick lustre throw:
Yet, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Johnson, these three shall
Make up the Jem in the point Verticall.
And now since JOHNSON'S gone, we well may say,
The Stage hath seene her glory and decay.
Whose judgement was't refined it? Or who
Gave Lawes, by which hereafter all must goe.
But solid JOHNSON? from whose full strong quill,
Each line did like a Diamond drop distill,
Though hard, yet cleare. Thalia that had skipt
Before, but like a Maygame girle, now stript
Of all her Mimick Jigges, became a sight
With mirth, to flow each pleas'd spectators light.
And in such gracefull measures, did discover
Her beauties now; that every eye turn'd Lover.
Who is't shall make with great Sejanus fall,
Not the Stage crack, but th' Universe and all?
Wild Catilines sterne fire, who now shall show?
Or quench't with milke, still'd downe by Cicero?
Where shall old Authors in such words be showne,
As vex their Ghosts, that they are not their owne?
Admit his Muse was slow. 'Tis Judgements Fate
To move, like greatest Princes, still in state.
Those Planets placed in the higher Sphoeres,
End not their motion but in many yeares;
VVhereas light Venus and the giddy Moone,
In one or some few dayes their courses run.
Slow are substantiall bodies: But to things
That ayery are; has Nature added wings.
Each triviall Poet that can chant a Rime,
May chatter out his owne wits Funerall chime:
And those slight nothings that so soone are made,
Like Mushromes, may together live and fade.
The Boy may make a Squib: But every line
Must be considered, where men spring a mine.
And to write things that Time can never staine,
VVill require sweat, and rubbing of the braine.
Such were those things he left. For some may be
Eccentrick, yet with Axiomes maine agree.
This Ile presume to say. VVhen Time has made
Slaughter of Kings that in the VVorld have sway'd:
A greener Bayes shall Crowne BEN. JOHNSONS Name,
Then shall be wreath'd about their Regall Fame.
For Numbers reach to Infinite. But He
Of whom I write this, has prevented me,
And boldly said so much in his owne praise,
No other pen need any Trophie raise.
OW. FELLTHAM.

On BEN: IONSON. TO MEMORIE.

I Doe not blame their paines who did not doubt
By labour of the Circle to finde out
The Quadrature; nor can I thinke it strange
That others should prove constancie in change.
Hee study'd not in vaine, who hop'd to give
A Body to the Eccho, make it live,
Be seene, and felt; nor hee whose Art would borrow
Beliefe for shaping yesterday, to morrow:
But heere I yeeld; Invention, Study, Cost,
Time, and the Art of Art it selfe is lost.
When any fraile ambition undertakes
For Honour, profit, praise, or all their sakes,
To speake unto the world in perfect sense,
Pure Judgement IONSON, 'tis an excellence
Suted his Pen alone, which yet to doe,
Requires himselfe, and 'twere a Labour too
Crowning the best of POETS, say all sorts
Of bravest Acts must die, without reports,
Count learned knowledge barren, fame abhord,
Let Memorie be nothing but a word:
Grant IONSON th' only Genius of the Times,
Fixe him a constellation in all Rhimes,
All height, all secrecies of wit invoke
The vertue of his Name, to ease the yoke
Of barbarisme; yet this lends only praise
To such as write, but addes not to his Bayes:
For hee will grow more fresh in every Story,
Out of the perfum'd Spring of his owne Glorie.
GEORGE DONNE.

A Funerall sacrifice, to the sacred memory of his thrice honoured Father BEN. IOHNSON.

I Cannot grave, nor carve; else would I give
Thee Satues, Sculptures, and thy name should live
In Tombes, and brasse, untill the stones, or rust
Of thine owne Monument, mixe with thy dust:
But Nature has afforded me a slight
And easie Muse, yet one that takes her flight
Above the vulgar pitch. BEN she was thine,
Made by adoption free and genuine.
By vertue of thy Charter, which from Heaven,
By Jove himselfe, before thy birth was given.
The Sisters Nine this secret did declare,
VVho of Joves counsell, and His daughters are.
These from Parnassus hill came running downe,
And though an Infant did with Laurels crowne.
Thrice they him kist, and took him in their armes,
And dancing round, incircled him with charmes.
Pallas her Virgin breast did thrice distill
Into his lips, and him with Nectar fill.
VVhen he grew up to yeeres, his mind was all
On Verses: Verses, that the Rocks might call
To follow him, and Hell it selfe command,
And wrest Joves three-fold thunder from his hand.
The Satires oft times hem'd him in a ring,
And gave him pipes and reeds to heare him sing:
VVhose vocall notes, tun'd to Apolloes Lyre,
The Syrens, and the Muses did admire.
The Nymphs to him their gemmes and corall sent;
And did with Swannes, and Nightingales present
Gifts farre beneath his worth. The golden Ore,
That lyes on Tagus or Pactolus shore,
Might not compare with him, nor that pure sand
The Indians find upon Hydaspes Strand.
His fruitfull raptures shall grow up to seed.
And as the Ocean does the Rivers feed,
So shall his wits rich veines, the VVorld supply
VVith unexhausted wealth, and ne'r be dry.
For whether He, like a fine thread does file
His terser Poems in a Comick stile,
Or treates of tragick furies, and him list,
To draw his lines out with a stronger twist:
Minervas, nor Arachnes loome can show
Such curious tracts; nor does the Spring bestow
Such glories on the Field, or Flora's Bowers,
As His works smile with Figures, and with Flowrs.
Never did so much strength, or such a spell
Of art, and eloquence of papers dwell.
For whil'st that he in colours, full and true,
Mens natures, fancies, and their humours drew
In method, order, matter, sence and grace,
Fitting each person to his time and place;
Knowing to move, to slacke, or to make haste,
Binding the middle with the first and last:
He fram'd all minds, and did all passions stirre,
And with a bridle guide the Theater.
To say now He is dead, or to maintaine
A Paradox he lives, were labour vaine:
Earth must to earth. But His faire soule does weare
Bright Ariadnes Crowne. Or is plac'd neere,
VVhere Orpheus Harpe turnes round with Laedas Swan:
Astrologers, demonstrate where you can,
VVhere His Star shines, and what part of the Skie,
Holds His compendious Divinity,
There He is fixt, I know it, cause from thence,
My selfe have lately receiv'd influence.
The Reader smiles; but let no man deride
The Embleme of my love, not of my pride.
SHACKERLEY MARMION, In Artibus Magister.

On the best of English Poets, BEN: IONSON, Deceased.

SO seemes a Starre to shoot; when from our sight
Falls the deceit, not from its losse of light;
VVe want use of a Soule, who meerely know
VVhat to our passion, or our sense we owe:
By such a hollow glasse, our cozen'd eye
Concludes alike, All dead, whom it sees die.
Nature is knowledge here, but un-refin'd,
Both differing, as the Body from the Mind:
Lawrell and Cypresse else, had growne together,
And withered without Memory to either;
Thus undistinguish'd, might in every part
The Sons of Earth vie with the Sons of Art.
Forbid it, (holy Reverence) to his NAME,
VVhose Glory hath fil'd up the Booke of Fame!
VVhere in faire Capitals, free, uncontrould,
IOHNSON, a worke of Honour lives inroul'd:
Creates that Booke a Worke; adds this farre more,
'Tis finish'd what unperfect was before.
The Muses, first in Greece begot, in Rome
Brought forth, our best of Poets hath cald home,
Nurst, taught, and planted here; that Thames now sings
The Delphian Altars, and the sacred Springs.
By Influence of this Soveraigne, like the Spheres,
Mov'd each by other, the most low (in yeares)
Contented in their harmony; though some
Malignantly aspected, overcome
VVith popular opinion, aym'd at Name
More then desert: yet in despight of shame
Ev'n they though foyl'd by his contempt of wrongs,
Made musique to the harshnes of their songs.
Drawne to the life of every line and limbe,
Hee (in his truth of Art, and that in him)
Lives yet, and will, whiles letters can be read
The losse is ours; now hope of life is dead.
Great men, and worthy of Report, must fall
Into their earth, and sleeping there sleepe all:
Since He, whose Pen in every straine did use
To drop a Ʋerse, and every Ʋerse a Muse,
Is vow'd to heaven; as having with faire glory,
Sung thankes of Honour, or some nobler Story.
The Court, the Vniversitie, the heat
Of Theaters, with what can else beget
Beliefe, and admiration, cleerely prove
Our POET fit in merit, as in love:
Yet if He doe not at his full appeare,
Survey him in his WORKES, and know him there.
IOHN FORD.

Ʋpon the Death of Mr. BEN. IOHNSON.

TIs not secure to be too learn'd, or good,
These are hard names, & now scarce understood:
Dull flagging soules with lower parts, may have
The vaine oftents of pride upon their Grave,
Cut with some faire Inscription, and true crie,
That both the Man and Epitaph there lie!
Whilst those that soare above the Vulgar pitch,
And are not in their bagges, but studies rich,
Must fall without a line, and onely be
A Theme of wonder, not of Poetry.
He that dares praise the eminent, he must
Either be such, or but revile their dust!
And so must we (Great Genius of brave verse!)
With our injurious zeale prophane thy Herse.
It is a taske above our skill, if we
Presume to mourne our owne dead Elegie;
Wherein, like Banckrupts in the stocke of Fame,
To patch our credit up, we use thy Name;
Or cunningly to make our drosse to passe,
Do set a jewell in a foile of brasse:
No, 'tis the glory of thy well-known Name,
To be eternis'd, not in verse but Fame.
JOHNSON! that's weight enough to crowne thy stone:
And make the Marble piles to sweat and grone
Under the heavy load! A Name shall stand
Fixt to thy Tombe, 'till times destroying hand
Crumble our dust together, and this All
Sinke to its Grave, at the great Funerall.
If some lesse learned age neglect thy pen,
Eclipse thy flames, and loose the Name of BEN,
In spight of ignorance thou must survive
In thy faire progeny; That shall revive
Thy scatter'd ashes in the skirts of death,
And to thy fainting Name give a new breath;
That twenty ages after, men shall say
(If the Worlds story reach so long a day,)
Pindar and Plautus with their double Quire
Have well translated BEN the English Lyre.
What sweets were in the Greek or Latine known,
A naturall Metaphor has made thine owne:
Their loftie language in thy Phrase so drest,
And neat conceits in our own tongue exprest,
That Ages hence, Criticks shall question make
Whether the Greeks and Romanes English spake.
And though thy Phancies were too high for those
That but aspire to COCKEPIT-flight, or prose,
Though the fine Plush and Velvets of the age
Did oft for sixepence damne thee from the Stage,
And with their Mast and Achorne-stomacks, ran
To t'h nastie sweepings of thy Servingman,
Before thy Cates, and swore thy stronger food,
'Cause not by them digested, was not good;
These Moles thy scorne and pittie did but raise,
They were as fit to judge as we to praise.
VVere all the choise of wit and language showne
In one brave Epitaph upon thy Stone,
Had learned Donne, Beaumont, and Randolph, all
Surviv'd thy Fate, and sung thy Funerall,
Their Notes had been too lowe: Take this from mee—
None but thy selfe could write a verse for thee.
R. BRIDEOAKE, A. M. N. C. Oxon.

On Mr. BEN. IOHNSON.

POet of Princes, Prince of Poets (wee
If to Apollo well may pray, to thee.)
Give Glo-wormes leave to peepe, who till thy Night
Could not be seene, we darkened were with Light.
For Starres t'appeare after the fall o'th' Sun,
Is at the least modest presumption.
I've seene a great Lamp lighted by the small
Sparke of a Flint, found in a Field or VVall.
Our thinner verse faintly may shaddow forth
A dull reflexion of thy glorious worth;
And (like a Statue homely fashion'd) raise
Some Trophies to thy Mem'rie, though not Praise.
Those shallow Sirs, who want sharpe sight to look
On the Majestique splendour of thy Booke.
That rather choose to heare an Archy's prate,
Then the full sence of a learn'd Laureate,
May when they see thy Name thus plainly writ,
Admire the solemne measures of thy wit,
And like thy Workes beyond a gawdy Showe
Of Boards and Canvas, wrought by INIGO.
Plough-men who puzzled are with Figures, come
By Tallies to the reckning of a Summe.
And Milk-sop Heires, which from their Mothers Lappe
Scarce travaild, know farre Countries by a Mappe.
Shakespeare may make griefe merry, Beaumonts stile
Ravish and melt anger into a smile;
In winter nights, or after meales they be,
I must confesse very good companie:
But thou exact'st our best houres industrie;
Wee may read them; we ought to studie thee:
Thy Scoenes are precepts, every verse doth give
Counsell, and teach us not to laugh, but live.
You that with towring thoughts presume so high,
(Sweld with a vaine ambitious Timpanie)
To dreame on scepters, whose brave mischiefe cals
The blood of Kings to their last Funeralls:
Learne from Sejanus his high fall, to prove
To thy dread Soveraigne a sacred love,
Let him suggest a reverend feare to thee,
And may his Tragedy, Thy Lecture bee.
Learne the compendious Age of slippery Power
That's built on blood; and may one little houre
Teach thy bold rashnesse that it is not safe
To build a Kingdome on a Caesars grave.
Thy Playes were whipt and libel'd, only 'cause
Th'are good, and savour of our Kingdomes Lawes;
HISTRIO-MASTIX (lightning like) doth wound
Those things alone that solid are and sound.
Thus guiltie Men hate justice; so a glasse
Is sometimes broke for shewing a foule Face.
There's none that wish Thee Rods instead of Bayes,
But such, whose very hate adds to thy Praise.
Let Scriblers (that write Post, and versifie
VVith no more leasure then wee cast a Die)
Spurre on their Pegasus, and proudly crie,
This Ʋerse I made ith' twinckling of an eye.
Thou couldst have done so, hadst thou thought it fit;
But 'twas the wisedome of thy Muse to sit
And weigh each syllable; suffering nought to passe
But what could be no better then it was.
Those that keepe pompous State nere goe in hast;
Thou went'st before them all, though not so fast.
VVhile their poore Cobweb-stuffe finds as quick Fate
As Birth, and sells like Almanacks out of date;
The marble Glory of thy labour'd Rhime
Shall live beyond the Calendar of Time.
VVho will their Meteors 'bove thy Sun advance?
Thine are the Works of judgement, theirs of chance.
How this whole Kingdome's in thy debt! wee have
From others Perewigs and Paints, to save
Our ruin'd Sculls and Faces; but to Thee
VVe owe our Tongues, and Fancies remedie.
Thy Poems make us Poets; wee may lacke
(Reading thy BOOKE) stolne sentences and Sack.
Hee that can but one speech of thine reherse,
VVhether hee will or no, must make a Ʋerse.
Thus Trees give fruit, the kernels of that Fruit,
Doe bring forth Trees, which in more branches shoot.
Our canting ENGLISH (of it selfe alone)
(I had almost said a Confusion)
Is now all harmony; what we did say
Before was tuning only, this is Play.
Strangers, who cannot reach thy sense, will throng
To heare us speake the Accents of thy Tongue
As unto Birds that sing; if't be so good
When heard alone, what is't when understood!
Thou shalt be read as Classick Authors; and
As Greeke and Latine taught in every Land.
The cringing Mounsieur shall thy Language vent,
When he would melt his Wench with Complement.
Using thy Phrases he may have his wish
Of a coy Nun, without an angry Pish.
And yet in all thy POEMS there is showne
Such Chastitie, that every Line's a Zone.
Rome will confesse that thou makst Caesar talke
In greater state and pompe then he could walke.
Catilines tongue is the true edge of swords,
We now not onely heare, but feele his words.
Who Tully in thy Idiome understands
Will sweare that his Orations are commands.
But that which could with richer Language dresse
The highest sense, cannot thy Worth expresse.
Had I thy owne Invention (which affords
" Words above Action, matter above words)
To crowne thy Merits, I should only bee
Sumptuously poore, low in Hyperbole.
RICHARD WEST.
OUr Bayes (me thinks) are withered, and they looke
As if (though thunder-free) with envy, strooke;
While the triumphant Cipresse boast to be
Design'd, as fitter for thy companie.
Where shall we now find one dares boldly write,
Free from base flattery yet as void of spight?
That grovels not in's Satyres, but soares high,
Strikes at the mounting vices, can descry
With his quicke Eagles Pen those glorious crimes,
That either dazle, or affright the Times?
Thy strength of Iudgement oft did thwart the tide
O'th' foaming multitude, when to their side
Throng'd plush, and silken censures, whilst it chose,
(As that which could distinguish Men from cloathes,
Faction from judgement) still to keepe thy Ba [...]es
From the suspition of a vulgar praise.
But why wrong I thy memory whilst I strive,
In such a Verse as mine to keep't alive?
Well wee may toyle, and shew our wits the racke;
Torture our needy fancies, yet still lacke
Worthy Expressions Thy great losse to moane,
Being none can fully praise thee but thy owne.
R. MEADE.

VPON THE DEATH OF BENIAMIN IOHNSON.

LEt thine owne Sylla (BEN) arise, and trye
To teach my thoughts an angry Extasie;
That I may fright Contempt, and with just darts
Of fury sticke thy Palsey in their Hearts:
But why doe I rescue thy Name from those
That only cast away their eares in Prose:
Or, if some better Braine arrive so high,
To venture Rhimes, 'tis but Court-Balladry,
Singing thy death in such an uncouth Tone,
As it had beene an Execution.
What are his fauls (O Envy!) that you speake
English at Court, the learned Stage acts Greeke?
That Latine Hee reduc'd, and could command
That which your Shakespeare scarce could understand?
That Hee expos'd you Zelots, to make knowne
Your Prophanation; and not his owne?
That One of such a fervent Nose, should be
Pos'd by a Puppet in DIVINITIE?
Fame write 'em on his Tombe, and let him have
Their Accusations for an Epitaph:
Nor thinke it strange if such thy Scoenes defie,
That erect Scaffolds 'gainst Authoritie.
Who now will plot to cozen Ʋice, and tell
The Tricke and Policie of doing well?
Others may please the Stage, His sacred Fire
Wise men did rather worship then admire:
His lines did relish mirth, but so severe;
That as they tickled, they did wound the Eare.
Well then, such Vertue cannot die, though Stones
Loaded with Epitaphs doe presse his Bones:
Hee lives to mee; spite of this Martyrdome:
BEN, is the selfe same POET in the Tombe.
You that can Aldermen new Wits create,
Know, IOHNSONS Sceleton is Laureate.
H. RAMSAY.
En
Ionsonus noster
Lyricorum Drammaticorumque
Coriphaeus
Qui
Pallide auspice
Lauruma Grecia ipsaque Roma
rapuit.
Et
Fausto omnine
In Britannian transtulit
nostram
Nunc
In vidia major
Fato, non Aemulus
cessit
Anno Dom. MCIXXVII. Id Nonar.
FR: WORTLEY, Baronet.

In obitum BEN: IONSONI Poetarum facile Principis.

IN quae proijcior discrimina? quale trementem
Traxit in officium piet as temeraria Musam?
Me miserum; incusso pertentor frigore, & umbrâ
Territus ingenti videor pars Funeris ipse
Quod celebro; famae concepta mole fatisco,
Exiquumque strues restringuit praegravis ignem.
Non tamen absistam, nam si spes tolibus ausis
Excidat, extabo laudum JOHNSONE tuarum
Ʋberior testis: totidem quos secula norunt,
Solus tu dignus, cuius praeconia spiret,
Deliquium Musarum, & victi facta Poetae.
Quis nescit, Romane tuos, in utrâque triumphos
Militiâ, Lauri (que) decus mox sceptra secutum:
Virgilius quo (que) Caesar erat, nec ferre priorem
Noverat: Augustum fato dilatus in aevum,
Ʋt Regemvatem jactares regia, Teque
Suspiceres gemino praelustrem Roma Monarchâ.
En penitus toto divisos orbe Brittannos,
Munera jactantes eadem, simili (que) beatos
Fortuna; haec quo (que) secla suum videre Maronem,
Caesarei vixit qui laetus imagine sceptri,
Emplevit (que) suum Romana carmine nomen.
Ʋt (que) viam cernas, langos (que) ad summa paratus;
En series eadem, vatum (que) simillimus ordo.
Quis neget incultum Lucreti carmen, & Enni
Deformes numeros, Musae incrementa Latinae?
Haud aliter nostri praemissa in principis ortum
Ludicra Chauceri, classis (que) incompta sequentum;
Nascenti aptaparum divina haec machina regno,
In nostrum servanda fuit, tantae (que) decebat
Praelusisse Deos aevi certamina famae;
Nec geminos vates, nec Te Shaksspeare silebo,
Aut quicquid sacri nostros conjecit in annos
Consilium Fati: per seros ite nepotes
Illustres animae, demissa (que) nomina semper
Candidior fama excipiat; sed parcite Divi,
Si majora vocant, si pagina sanctior urget.
Est vobis decor, et nativae gratia Musae,
Quae trahit at (que) tenet, quae me modô laeta remittit,
Excitum modô in alta rapit, versat (que) legentem.
Sed quàm te memorem vatum Deus: O novagentis
Gloria & ignoto turgescens Musa cothurno!
Quàm solidat vires, quàm pingui robore surgens
Invadit (que) haurit (que) animam: haud temerarius ille
Qui mos est reliquis, probat obvia, magna (que) fundit
Felici tantum genio; sed destinat ictum,
Sed vafer et sapiens cunctator praevia sternit,
Furtivo (que) gradu subvectus in ardua, tandem
Dimittit pleno correptos fulmine sensus.
Huc, precor, accedat quisquis primo igne calentem
Ad numeros sua Musa vocat, nondum (que) subacti
Ingenij novitate tumens in carmina fertur
Non normae legisve memor; quis ferre soluti
Naufragium ingenij poterit, mentis (que) ruinam?
Quanto pulchrior hic medijs qui regnat in undis,
Turbine correptus nullo: cui spiritus ingens
Non artem vincit: medio sed verus in oestro,
Princeps insano pugnantem numine musam
Edomat, & cudit suspenso metra furore.
In rabiem Catilina tuam conversus & artes
Qualia molitur; quali bacchatur hiatu?
En mugitum oris, conjuratae (que) Camaenae,
Divinas furias & non imitable fulmen!
O verum Ciceronis opus, linguae (que) disertae,
Elogium spirans: O vox aeterna Catonis,
Caesaream reserans fraudem, retrahens (que) sequaces
Patricios in caedem, & funera certa reorum:
Quis fando expediat primae solennia pompae,
Et circumfusi studium plausus (que) Theatri?
Non tu divini Cicero dux inclyte facti,
Romave majores vidit servata triumphos.
Celsior incedis nostro, Sejane, cothurno
Quàm te Romani, quâm te tua fata ferebant:
Hinc magis insigni casu, celebri (que) ruina
Volveris, & gravius terrent exempla Theatri.
At tu stas nunquam ruituro in culmine vates,
Despiciens auras, & fallax numen Amici,
Tutus honore tuo, genitae (que) volumine famae.
A capreis verbosa & grandis epistola frustra
Venerat, offenso major fruerere Tonante,
Si sic crevisses, si sic, Sejane, stetisses.
O fortunatum, qui te, JONSONE, sequutus
Contexit sua fila, sui (que) est Nominis Author.
T. TERRENT.

VATVM PRINCIPI, BEN. JONSONO Sacrum.

Poetarum Maxime!
Sive Tu mortem, sive Ecstasin passus,
Jaces verendum et plus quam Hominis funus.
Sic post receptam sacri furoris Gloriam,
[...]m exhaustum jam Numen Decoxit emerita Vates
Jugi (que) fluxu non reditura se prodegit Anima,
Jacuit Sibyllae cadaver,
Vel trepidis adhuc cultoribus consulendum.
Nulli se longius indulsit DEVS, nulli aegrius valedixit;
Pares testatus flammas,
Dum Exul, ac dum Incola.
Annorum (que) jam ingruente Vespere,
Pectus Tuum, tanquam Poeseos Horizonta,
Non sine Rubore suo reliquit:
Vatibus nonnullis ingentia prodere; nec scire datur:
Magnum alijs Mysterium, majus sibi,
Ferarum ritu vaticinantium
Inclusum jactant Numen quod nesciunt,
Et instinctu sapiunt non Intellecto.
Quibus dum ingenium facit Audacia, prodest Ignorare:
Tibi Primo contigit furore frui proprio,
Et Numen regeri Tuum.
Dum pari luctâ Afflatibus Iudicium commisisti,
Bis Entheatus:
Alias (que) Musis Mutas addidisti, Artes et Scientias,
Tui plenus Poeta.
Qui furorem Insaniae eximens
Docuisti, et sobrie Aonios Latices hauriri,
Primus Omnium.
Qui Effroenem Caloris luxuriem frugi Consilio castigaveris,
Vt tandem Ingenium sine veniâ placiturum
Possideret Britannia,
Miraretur Orbis,
Nihil (que) inveniret scriptis Tuis donandum, praeter famam.
Quòd Prologi igitùr
Velut Magnatum Propylaea Domini Titulos proferunt,
Perpetuum (que) celebratur Argumentum, Ipse Author,
Non Arrogantis hoc est, sed Iudicantis,
Aut Vaticinantis.
Virtutis enim illud et vatis est, sibi placere,
Proinde non Invidiâ tantum nostrâ, sed Laude Tuâ
Magnum Te prodire jusserunt fata.
Qui Integrum Nobis Poetam solus exhibuisti,
Vnus (que) omnes exprimens.
Cum frondes Alij Laureas Decerpunt, Tu totum Nemus vindicas,
Nec Adulator Laudas, nec invidus perstringis:
Vtrum (que) exosus.
[...]el Sacrificio Tuo Mella, vel Medicinae Acetum immiscere.
Nec Intenso nimis spiritu Avenam Dirupisti:
Nec exili nimis Tubam emaculasti;
Servatis vtrin (que) Legibus, Lex ipsi factus.
[...]nâ obsequij religione Imperium nactus es:
Rerum servus, non Temporum.
Ita omnium Musarum Amasius,
Omnibus perpetuum certamen astas.
Sit Homeri gloria
Vrbes de se certantes habere, de te disputant Musae,
Qui seu cothurno niteris, inter Poetas Tonans Pater,
Sive soccum Pede comples rotundo,
Et Epigrammata Dictas Agenda,
Facetias (que) Manibus exprimendas,
Adoranda posteris Ducis vestigia, et nobis unus es Theatrum Metari.
Non Arenae spectacula scena exhibuit Tua,
Nec Poemata, sed Poesin ipsam parturijt,
Populo (que) Mentes, et Leges ministravit,
Quibus Te damnare possent, si Tu poteras peccare.
Sic et Oculos spectanti praestas, et spectacula;
Scenam (que) condis quae Legi magis gestiat quam spectari,
Non Histrioni suum delitura ingenium,
Queis nullus Alij Apollo, sed Mercurius Numen,
Quibus Afflatus praestant vinum et Amasia,
Trudunt (que) in Scenam vitia, Morbo Poetae.
Quibus Musa Pagis primis (que) Plaustris apta,
Praemoriturum vati carmen,
Non edunt, sed abortiunt;
Cui ipsum etiam praelum conditorium est,
Novâ (que) Lucinae fraude in Tenebras emittuntur Authores,
Dum Poemata sic ut Diaria,
Suo tantum Anno et Regioni effingunt,
Sic quo (que) Plauti Moderni sales,
Ipsi tantum Plauto [...]:
Et vernaculae nimium Aristophanis facetiae
Non extra suum Theatrum Plausus invenerunt:
Tu interim
Saculi spiras quo (que) post futuri Genium.
Idem (que) Tuum et Orbis Theatrum est,
Dum Immensum, cum (que) Lectore crescens Carmen;
Et perenne uno fundis Poema verbo,
Tuas Tibi gratulamur foelices Moras!
Quanquam quid moras reprehendimus, quas nostri fecit reverentia?
Aeternùm scribi debuit quicquid aeternum legi.
Poteras Tu solus
Stylo sceptris Majore Orbem moderari.
Romae Britannos subjugavit Gladius,
Romam Britannis Calamus tuus,
Quam sic vinci gestientem,
Cothurno Angliaco sublimiorem quam suis Collibus cernimus,
Demum quod majus est, aetatem Nobis nostram subijcis;
Oraculi (que) Vicarius,
Quod jussit DEVS, Fides praestat Sacerdos,
Homines seipsos Noscere instituens.
Lingua Nostra
Tibi collactanea Tecum crevit,
Voces (que) patrias, et Tuas simùl formasti.
Nec Indigenam amplius, sed JONSONI jactamus facundiam,
Vt inde semper Tibi contingat Tuâ Linguâ Celebrari;
Qui et Romam
Disertiores docuisti voces
Mancipiali Denuò Iocomate superbientem,
Graeciam (que) etiam
Orbis Magistram excoluisti,
Nunc aliâ quàm Atticâ Minervâ Eloquentem.
Te solo Dives poteras Aliorum Ingenia contemnere,
Et vel sine Illis evasisses Ingenij compendium:
Sed ut ille Pictor,
Mundo daturus par Ideae Exemplar,
Quas hinc et inde Pulchritudines
Sparserat Natura,
Collegit Artifex:
Formae (que) rivulos palantes in unum cogens Oceanum,
Inde exire jussit alteram sine naevo Ʋenerem.
Ita Tibi parem Machinam molito,
In hoc etiam ut Pictura erat Poesis;
Alij inde Authores materies Ingenio Tuo accedunt,
Tu illis Ars, et Lima adderis.
Et si Poetae audient Illi, Tu Ipsa Poesis;
Authorum non alius Calamus, sed Author.
Scriptores Diu sollicitos Teipso tandem docens,
Quem debet Genium habere victurus Liber.
Qui praecesserunt, quotquot erant viarum tantùm Judices fuerunt,
Tu solùm Columna.
Quae prodest alijs virtus, obstat Domino.
Et qui caeteros emendatiùs transcripseras,
Ipse transcribi nescis.
Par Prioribus congressus, Futuris Impar,
Scenae perpetuus Dictator.
ROB. WARING.

Epitaphium in BEN: IONSON.

ADsta hospes: pretium morae est, sub isto
Quid sit, discere, conditum Sepulchro.
Socci deliciae; decus Cothurni;
Scenae pompa; cor & caput Theatri;
Linguarum sacer helluo; perennis
Defluxus venerum; scatebra salsi
Currens lene joci, sed innocentis;
Artis perspicuum jubar; coruscum
Sydus; judicij pumex, profundus
Doctrinae puteus, tamen serenus;
Scriptorum genius; Poeticus Dux,
Quantum O sub rigido latet lapillo!
WILLIAM BEW. N. Coll. Oxon. soc.

In Obitum BEN. IONSON.

NEc sic excidimus: pars tantùm vilior audit
Imperium Libitina tuum, coelestior urget
Aethereos tractus, medias (que) supervolat Auras,
Et velut effusum spissa inter nubila lumen
Ingenij strictura micat, foelicior ille,
Quisquis ab hoc victuram actavit Lampada Phoebo.
In famulante faces accendimus, id (que) severae,
Quod damus alterius vitae, concedimus Ʋmbrae.
Sic Caput Ismarij, caesâ cervice, Poetae,
Nescio quid rapido vocale immurmurat Hebro,
Memnonis adverso sic stridit Chordula Phoebo,
Dat (que) modos magicos, tenues (que) reciprocat Auras:
Seu Tu Grandiloqui torques vaga froena Theatri,
En Tibi vox geminis applaudit publica Palmis;
Seu juvat in Numeros, palantes cogere voces
Maeoniâ JONSONE cheli, Te pronus amantum
Prosequitur Coetus, studioso imitamine vatum.
BENIAMINI insignis quondam quintuplice ditis
Suffitu Mensae, densa (que) paropside, sed Tu
Millenâ plus parte alios excedis, et Auctis
Accumulas dapibus, propriâ de dote, Placentam.
SAM. EVANS, L L. Bacc. No. Coll. Oxon. Soc.
OVèd Martes Epico tonat Cothurno,
Sive aptat Elegis leves Amores,
Seu sales Epigrammatum jocosos
Promit, seu numerosiora plectro
Jungit verba, sibi secundat orsa
Cyrrhaeus, nec Hyantiae sorores
Ʋlli dexterius favent Poetae,
Hoc cùm Maeonide sibi et Marone,
Et cum Callimacho, et simul Tibullo
Commune est, alijs (que) cum trecentis:
Sed quòd Anglia quotquot eruditos
Foecundo ediderit sinu Poetas
Acceptos referat sibi, sua omnes
Hos industria finxerit, labos (que)
IONSONI, Hoc proprium est suum (que) totum,
Qui Poëmata fecit et Poetas.
R. BRIDEOAKE. A. M. N. C. Oxon.
[...],
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[...]
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[...],
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[...].
[...].
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Ian. 23. 1637.

Jmprimatur,

THO: WYKES, R. P. Episc. Lond: Capell: Domest.
FINIS.

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