JONSONUS VIRBIUS: OR, THE MEMORY OF BEN: JOHNSON REVIVED BY THE FRIENDS OF THE MUSES.  NOLI ALTUM SAPERE  printer's device of Elizabeth Purslowe 
LONDON, Printed by E. P. for Henry Seile, and are to be sold at his shop, at the Tiger's Head in Fleetstreet, over-against Saint Dunstan's Church. 1638.   

THE PRINTER TO THE READER.  
'TIs now about six months since the most learned and judicious Poet, B. JOHNSON, became a subject for these Elegies. The time interjected between his death and the publishing of these, shows that so great an Argument ought to be considered, before handled; not that the gentlemen's affections were less ready to grieve, but their judgements to write. At length the lose Papers were consigned to the hands of a Gentleman, who truly honoured 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 posterity.  
Farewell.   

An Eglogue on the Death of BEN- JOHNSON, between Melybaeus and Hylas.  MELYBEUS. 
Hylas', the clear day boasts a glorious Sun,  
Our Troop is ready, and our time is come:  
That Fox who hath so long our Lambs destroyed,  
And daily in his prosperous rapine joyed,  
Is earthed not fare from hence, old Aegons' son,  
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 we stayed,  
The Prey-devourer had our prey been made.  Hyl. 
Oh! Melibaeus now I list not hunt,  
Nor have that vigour as before I wont;  
My presence will afford them no relief,  
That Beast I strive to chase is only grief.  Mel. 
What mean thy folded Arms, thy downcast eyes,  
Tears which so fast descend, and sighs which rise?  
What mean thy words which so distracted fall,  
As all Thy Joys had now one funeral?  
'Cause for such grief, can out retirements yield?  
That follows Courts, but stoops not to the field.  
Hath thy stern stepdame to thy sire revealed  
Some youthful act, which thou couldst wish concealed?  
Part of thy Herd hath some close thief conveyed  
From open pastures to a darker shade?  
Part of thy flock hath some fierce Torrent drowned?  
Thy harvest failed? or Amarillis frowned?  Hyl. 
Nor Love, nor Anger, Accident nor Thief,  
Hath raised the waves of my unbounded grief:  
To cure this cause, I would provoke the ire  
Of my fierce Stepdame or severer Sire,  
Give all my Herds, Fields, Flocks, and all the grace,  
That ever shone in Amarillis Face.  
Alas, that Bard, that glorious Bard is dead,  
Who when I whilom Cities visited,  
Hath made them seem, but hours which were full days,  
Whilst he vouchsafed me his harmonious lays:  
And when He lived, I thought the country th' en  
A torture, and no Mansion, but a Den.  Mel. 
JOHNSON you mean, unless I much do err,  
I know the Person by the Character.  Hyl. 
You guess aright, it is too truly so,  
From no less spring could all these Rivers flow.  Mel. 
Ah Hylas! then thy grief I cannot call  
A passion, when the ground is rational.  
I now excuse thy tears and sighs, though those  
To deluges, and these to tempests rose:  
Her great instructor gone, I know the Age  
No less laments than doth the widowed stage,  
And only Vice and Folly, now are glad,  
Our Gods are troubled, and our Prince is sad:  
He chief who bestows light, health and art,  
Feels this sharp grief pierce his immortal heart,  
He his neglected Lyre away hath thrown,  
And wept a larger nobler Helicon,  
To find his Herbs, which to his wish prevail,  
For the less loved should his own favourite fail:  
So moaned himself when Daphne he adored,  
That arts relieving all, should fail 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, & towns,  
At last the honour of our Woods and Downs,  
Had often heard his Songs, was often fired  
With their enchanting power, ere he retired,  
And ere himself 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 Music to his soul had shown,  
Or in all meetings to divert the stream  
Of our discourse; and make his Friend his Theme,  
And praising works which that rare Loom hath weaved,  
Impart that pleasure which he had received,  
So in sweet notes (which did all tunes excel,  
But what he praised) I oft have heard him tell  
Of His rare Pen, what was the use and price,  
The Bays of Virtue and the scourge of Vice:  
How the rich ignorant he valued least,  
Nor for the trappings would esteem the beast:  
But did our youth to noble actions raise,  
Hoping the meed of his immortal praise:  
How bright and soon His Muse's morning shone,  
Her Noon how lasting, and her Evening none:  
How speech exceeds not dumbness, nor verse prose,  
More than His verse the low rough rhymes of those,  
(For such his seen, they seemed,) who highest reared,  
Possessed Parnassus ere his power appeared:  
Nor shall another Pen his fame dissolve,  
Till we this doubtful Problem can resolve,  
Which in his works we most transcendent see,  
Wit, judgement, Learning, Art, or Industry,  
Which Till is Never, so all jointly flow,  
And each doth to an equal Torrent grow:  
His Learning such, no Author old nor new,  
Escaped his reading that deserved his view,  
And such his judgement, so exact his Test,  
Of what was best in Books, as what books best,  
That had he joined those notes his Labours took,  
From each most praised and praise-deserving Book,  
And could the world of that choice 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 fare exceed his Notes:  
So in his works where aught inferred grows,  
The noblest of the Plants engrafted shows,  
That his adopted Children equal not,  
The generous Issue his own Brain 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 admired his Wit,  
The Hees and she's, the Boxes, and the Pit;  
And who less liked within, did rather choose  
To tax their judgements then suspect his Muse,  
How no spectator his chaste stage could call  
The cause of any crime of his, but all  
With thoughts and wills purged and amended rise,  
From th' Ethicke Lectures of his Comedies,  
Where the Spectators act, and the shamed age  
Blusheth to meet her follies on the stage;  
Where each man finds some Light he never sought,  
And leaves behind some vanity he brought,  
Whose Politics no less the minds direct,  
Then these the manners, nor with less effect,  
When his Majestic Tragedies relate  
All the disorders of a Tottering state,  
All the distempers which on Kingdom's fall,  
When ease, and wealth, and vice are general,  
And yet the minds against all fear assure,  
And telling the disease, prescribe the Cure:  
Where, as he tells what subtle ways, what friends,  
(Seeking their wicked and their wished for ends)  
Ambitious and luxurious Persons prove,  
Whom vast desires, or mighty wants doth move,  
The general Frame, to say and undermine,  
In proud Sejanus, and bold Catiline;  
So in his vigilant Prince and Consuls parts,  
He shows the wiser and the nobler Arts,  
By which a state may be unhurt, upheld,  
And all those works destroyed, which hell would build.  
Who (not like those who with small praise had writ,  
Had they not called in judgement to their Wit)  
Used not a tutor hand his to direct,  
But was sole Workman and sole Architect:  
And sure by what my Friend did daily tell,  
If he but acted his own part as well  
As he writ those of others, he may boast,  
The happy fields hold not a happier ghost.  Hyl. 
Stranger's will think this strange, yet he (dear Youth,  
Where most he past belief, fell short of Truth:  
Say on, what more he said, this gives relief,  
And though it raise my cause, it bats my grief,  
Since Fates decreed him now no longer lived,  
I joy to hear him by thy Friend revived.  Mel. 
More he would say, and better, (but I spoil  
His smother words with my unpolisht style)  
And having told what pitch his worth attained,  
He then would tell us what Reward it gained;  
How in an ignorant, and learned age he swayed,  
(Of which the first he found, the second made)  
How He, when he could know it, reaped his Fame,  
And long outlived the envy of his Name:  
To him how daily flocked, what reverence gave,  
All that had wit, or would be thought to have,  
Or hope to gain, and in so large a store,  
That to his Ashes they can pay no more,  
Except those few who censuring, thought not so,  
But aimed at glory from so great a foe:  
How the wise too, did with mere wits agree,  
As Pembroke, Portland, and grave Aubigny;  
Nor thought the rigidst Senator a shame,  
To contribute to so deserved a fame:  
How great Eliza, the Retreat of those,  
Who weak and injured her protection chose,  
Her Subjects joy, the strength of her Allies,  
The fear and wonder of her Enemies,  
With her judicious favours did infuse  
Courage and strength into his younger Muse:  
How learned JAMES, whose praise no end shall find,  
(But still enjoy a Fame pure like his Mind)  
Who favoured quiet, and the Arts of Peace,  
(Which in his Haltion days found large increase)  
Friend to the humblest if deserving Swain,  
Who was himself a part of Phoebus' Train,  
Declared great JOHNSON worthiest to receive  
The Garland which the Muse's hands did wove,  
And though his Bounty did sustain his days,  
Gave a more welcome Pension in his praise:  
How mighty Charles amidst that Weighty care,  
In which three Kingdoms as their Blessing share,  
Whom as it tends with ever watchful eyes,  
That neither Power may force, nor Art surprise.  
So bounded by no shore, grasps all the Main,  
And fare as Neptune claims, extends his reign.  
Found still some Time to hear and to admire,  
The happy sounds of his Harmonious Lyre,  
And oft hath left his bright exalted Throne,  
And to his Muse's feet combined His own: 
In his Masks.   
As did his Queen, whose Person so disclosed  
A brighter Nymph than any Part imposed,  
When she did join, by an Harmonious choice,  
Her graceful Motions to his Powerful voice:  
How above all the rest was Phoebus fired  
With love of Arts, which he himself inspired,  
Nor oftener by his Light our Sense was cheered,  
Then he in Person to his sight appeared,  
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 Honours have,  
What now will Piety pay to his grave?  
Shall of the rich (whose lives were low and vile,  
And scarce deserved a Grave, much less a Pile)  
The monuments possess an ample Room,  
And such a Wonder lie without a Tomb?  
Raise thou him one in Verse, and There relate  
His Worth, thy grief, and our deplored state,  
His great Perfections our great loss recite,  
And let them merely weep who cannot write,  Hyl. 
I like thy saying, but oppose thy choice,  
So great a Task as this requires a Voice  
Which must be heard, and listened to, by all,  
And Fames own Trumpet but appears too small,  
Then for my slender Reed to sound his Name,  
Would more my Folly then his praise proclaim,  
And when you wish my weakness sing his Worth,  
You charge a Mouse to bring a Mountain forth:  
I am by Nature formed, by Woes made Dull,  
My Head is emptier than my Heart is full;  
Grief doth my Brain impair, as Tears supply,  
Which makes my face so moist, my Pen so dry:  
Nor should this Work proceed from Woods and Downs,  
But from the Academies, Courts, and Towns;  
Let Digby, Carew, Killigrew, and Maine,  
Godolphin, Waller, that inspired Train,  
Or whose rare Pen beside deserves the grace,  
Or of an equal, or a neighbouring Place,  
Answer thy wish, for none so fit appears  
To raise his Tomb, as who are left his Heirs:  
Yet for this Cause no labour need be spent,  
Writing his Works, he built his Monument.  Mel. 
If to obey in this, thy Pen be loath,  
It will not seem thy weakness, but thy sloth:  
Our Towns pressed by our Foes invading Might,  
Our ancient Druids and young Virgins fight,  
Employing feeble Limbs to the best use;  
So JOHNSON dead, no Pen should plead excuse:  
For Elegies, howl all who cannot sing,  
For Tombs bring Turf, who cannot Marble bring,  
Let all their forces mix, join Verse to Rhyme,  
To save his Fame from that Invader, Time;  
Whose Power, though his alone may well restrain,  
Yet to so wished an end, no Care is vain;  
And Time, like what our Brooks act in our sight,  
Oft sinks the neightie, and upholds the Light:  
Besides, to this, thy pains I strive to move  
Less to express his glory then thy Love:  
Not long before his Death, our woods he meant  
To visit, and descend from Thames to Trent,  
Meet with thy Elegy his Pastoral,  
And rise as much as he vouchsafed to fall:  
Suppose it chance no other Pen do join  
In this Attempt, and the whole work be thine.  
When the fierce fire the rash-Boy kindled, reigned,  
The whole world suffered; Earth alone complained:  
Suppose that many more intent the same,  
More taught by Art, and better known to Fame,  
To that great Deluge which so fare destroyed,  
The Earth her Springs, as Heaven his Showers employed;  
So may who highest Marks of Honour wears,  
Admit mean Partners in this Flood of Tears:  
So oft the Humblest join with Loftiest Things,  
Nor only Princes weep the fate of Kings.  Hyl. 
I yield, I yield, Thy words my thoughts have fired,  
And I am less persuaded then inspired;  
Speech shall give Sorrow vent, and that Relief,  
The Woods shall echo all the City's grief:  
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 only doubt,  
So much would pass, that Nothing will get out,  
Else in this Work which now my Thoughts intent  
I shall find nothing hard, but how to end:  
I than but ask fit Time to smooth my Lays,  
(And imitate in this the Pen I praise)  
Which by the Subject's Power embalmed, may last,  
Whilst the Sun Light, the Earth doth shadows cast,  
And feathered by those Wings fly among men,  
Fare as the Fame of Poetry and BEN.  
FALKLAND.   


TO THE MEMORY OF BENJAMIN JOHNSON.  
IF Romulus did promise in the fight  
To love the Stator, if he held from flight  
His men, a Temple, and performed his vow:  
Why should not we, learned JOHNSON, thee allow  
An Altar at the least? since by Thy aid,  
Learning, that would have left us, has been stayed.  
The Actions were different: that thing  
Required some mark to keeped from perishing;  
But letters must be quite defaced before  
Thy memory, whose care did them restore  BUCKHURST.  

TO THE MEMORY OF him who can never be forgotten, Master BENJAMIN JOHNSON.  
HAd this been for some meaner Poets Hearse,  
I might have then observed the laws of verse:  
But here they fail, nor can I hope t'express  
In Numbers, what the world grants Numberless;  
Such are the Truths, we ought to speak of Thee,  
Thou great refiner of our Poesy,  
Who turn'st to gold that which before was lead;  
Then with that pure Elixir raised the dead.  
Nine Sisters who (for all the Poets lies)  
Had been deemed Mortal, did not JOHNSON rise  
And with celestial Sparks (not stolen) revive  
Those who could erst keep winged Fame alive:  
'Twas he that found (placed) in the seat of wit,  
Dull grinning Ignorance, and banished it;  
He on the prostituted Stage appears  
To make men hear, not by their eyes, but ears;  
Who painted Virtues, that each one might know,  
And point the man, that did such Treasure own:  
So that who could in JONSON'S lines be high  
Needed not Honours, or a Ribbon buy:  
But vice he only showed us in a glass,  
Which by reflection of those rays that pass,  
Retains the figure lively, set before,  
And that withdrawn, reflects at us no more;  
So, he observed the like Decorum, when  
He whipped the vices, and yet spared the men;  
When heretofore, the vices only note,  
And sign from virtue as his party-coate,  
When Devils were the last Men on the Stage,  
And prayed for plenty, and the present Age;  
Nor was our English language, only bound  
To thank him, for he Latin Horace found  
(Who so inspired Rome, with his Lyric song)  
Translated in the Macaronicke tongue,  
Clothed in such rags, as one might safely vow,  
That his Maecenas, would not own him now;  
On him he took this pity, as to cloth  
In words, and such expression, as for both,  
there's none but judgeth the exchange will come  
To twenty more, than when he sold at Rome.  
Since then, he made our Language pure and good,  
And teach us speak, but what we understood,  
We own this praise to him, that should we join  
To pay him, he were paid but with the coin  
Himself hath minted, which we know by this  
That no words pass for currant now, but his;  
And though He in a blinder age could change  
Faults to perfections, yet 'twas fare more strange  
To see (how ever times, and fashions frame)  
His wit and language still remain the same  
In all men's mouths; Grave Preachers did it use  
As golden Pills, by which they might infuse  
Their Heavenly Physic; Ministers of State  
Their grave dispatches in his language wrote;  
Ladies made cur'tsies in them, Courtiers, legs,  
Physicians Bills, perhaps some Pedant begs  
He may not use it, for he hears 'tis such,  
As in few words, a man may utter much  
Can I have spoken in his language too,  
I had not said so much, as now I do,  
To whose clear memory, I this tribute send  
Who Dead's my wonder, Living was my Friend.  JOHN BEAUMONT, Baronet.  

TO THE MEMORY OF M. BENJAMIN JOHNSON.  
TO press into the throng, where Wits thus strive  
To make thy Laurels fading Tombs survive,  
Argues thy worth, their love, my bold desire,  
Somewhat to sing, though but to fill the Choir:  
But (Truth to speak) what Muse can silent be,  
Or little say, that hath for Subject, Thee,  
Whose Poems such, that as the Sphere of fire,  
They warm insensibly, and Force inspire,  
Knowledge, and wit infuse, mute tongues unlose,  
And ways not tracked to write, and speak disclose.  
But when thou puttest thy Tragic Buskin on,  
Or Comic Sock of mirthful Action,  
Actors, as if inspired from thy hand,  
Speak, beyond what they think, less, understand.  
And thirsty Hearers wonderstrucken say,  
Thy words make that a Truth, was meant a Play.  
Folly, and brainsick Humours 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 learn,  
Virtue, from vicious Habits to discern.  
Oft have I seen Thee in a sprightly strain,  
To lash a Vice, and yet no one complain,  
Thou threw'st the Ink of Malice from Thy Pen,  
Whose aim was evil manners, not ill men.  
Let then frail parts repose, where solemn care  
Of pious Friends, thou Pyramids prepare;  
And take thou (BEN) from Verse a second breath,  
Which shall create Thee new, and conquer Death.  Sr. THO. HAWKINS.  

Upon BEN. JOHNSON.  

I See that Wreath which doth the wearer arm  
'Gainst the quick strokes of Thunder is no charm  
To keep off deaths pale dart: For (JOHNSON) than  
Thou hadst been numbered still with living men:  
Times Sith had feared thy Laurel to invade,  
Nor thee this Subject of our sorrow made.   

Amongst those many Votaries that come  
To offer up their Garlands at thy Tomb,  
Whilst some more lofty Pens in their bright Verse,  
(Like glorious Tapers flaming on thy Hearse)  
Shall light the dull and thankless World to see,  
How great a maim it suffers, (wanting thee;)  
Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I  
Pay meaner Rites unto thy Memory:  
And since I nought can add but in desire,  
Restore some sparks which leapt from thine own fire.   

What ends soever other Quills invite,  
I can protest, it was no itch to write,  
Nor any vain ambition to be read,  
But merely love and justice to the dead,  
Which raised my fameless Muse; and caused her bring  
These drops, as tribute thrown into that Spring,  
To whose most rich and fruitful head we own  
The purest streams of language which can flow.  
For 'tis but truth; Thou taughtst the ruder Age,  
To speak by Grammar; and reformd'st the Stage:  
Thy Comic ock induced 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, thyself was one  
Helped lift it up to such proportion,  
That thus refined and robed it shall not spare  
With the full Greek or Latin to compare.  
For what Tongue ever durst, but Ours, translate  
Great Tully's Eloquence, or Homer's State?  
Both which in their unblemished lustre shine,  
From Chapman's Pen, and from thy CATILINE.   

All I would ask for thee, in recompense  
Of thy successful toil, and times expense  
Is only this poor boon: That those who can  
Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,  
Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,  
(To show their skill in foreign dialect)  
Prove not themselves so unnat'rally wise  
They therefore should their Mother-tongue despise:  
(As if her Poets both for style and wit,  
Not equalled, or not passed their best that writ)  
Until by studying JOHNSON they have known  
The height, and strength, and plenty of their own.  
Thus in what low earth, or neglected room,  
So ere thou sleepest, thy BOOK shall be thy Tomb,  
Thou wilt go down a happy Coarse, bestrewed  
With thine own Flowers and feel thyself renewed,  
Whilst thy immortal, never withering Bays  
Shall yearly flourish in thy Readers praise.  
And when more spreading Titles are forgot,  
Or, spite of all their Lead and Cerecloth, rot;  
Thou wrapped and shrined in thine own sheets wilt lie  
A Relic famed by all Posterity.   HEN. KING.  

MIght but this slender offering of mine,  
Crowd midst the sacred burden of thy shrine,  
The near acquaintance with thy greater name  
Might style 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 transgress  
Affection, nor with bold presumption press,  
Midst those close mourners, whose nigh kin in verse,  
Hath made the near attendance of Thy hearse,  
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  
Prise by the want of Wit, the loss of Thee.  
As when the wearied Sun hath stolen to rest,  
And darkness made the world's unwelcome guest,  
We grovelling captives of the night, yet may  
With fire and candle beget light, not day:  
Now He whose name in Poetry controls,  
Goes to converse with more refined Souls,  
Like country Gazers in amaze we sit,  
Admirers of this great Eclipse in Wit,  
Reason and Wit We have to show us Men,  
But no hereditary beam of Ben,  
Our knocked inventions may beget a spark,  
Which faints at th'least resistance of the dark,  
Thine like the Fires high element was pure,  
And like the same made not to burn, but cure,  
When thy enraged Muse did chide o'th' stage,  
'Twas to reform, not to abuse the Age,  
But thou'rt requited ill, to have thy hearse,  
Stained by prophaner Parricides in verse;  
Who make mortality, a guilt, and scold,  
Merely because Thou'dst offer to be old,  
'Twas too unkind a slighting of Thy name,  
To think a ballad could confute Thy Fame,  
Let's but peruse their Libels, and they'll be,  
But arguments they understood not thee,  
Nor Is't disgrace, that in Thee through age spent,  
'Twas thought a crime not to be excellent:  
For Me, I'll in such reverence hold thy Fame,  
I'll but by Invocation use Thy Name,  
Be thou propitious, Poetry shall know,  
No Deity but Thee to whom I'll owe.  HEN. COVENTRY.  

AN ELEGY UPON BENJAMIN JOHNSON.  
THough once high Statius o'er dead Lucan's hearse,  
Would seem to fear his own Hexameters,  
And thought a greater Honour than that fear,  
He could not bring to Lucan's sepulchre;  
Let not our Poets fear to write of thee,  
Great JOHNSON King of English Poetry  
In any English Verse, let none who e'er,  
Bring so much emulation as to fear:  
But pay without comparing thoughts at all,  
Their tribute verses to thy funeral;  
Nor think what ere they writ on such a name,  
Can be amiss; 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 show what judgement, Art and Wit did join  
To make them up, but only (in the way  
That Famianus honoured Virgil) say,  
The Muse herself was linked so near to thee,  
Who ere saw one, must needs the other see,  
And if in thy expressions ought seemed scant,  
Not thou, but Poetry itself did want,   

AN ELEGY ON BEN. JOHNSON.  

I Dare not, learned Shade, bedew thy Hearse  
With tears, unless that impudence in Verse  
Would cease to be a sin; and what were crime  
In Prose, would be no injury in Rhyme.  
My thoughts are so below, I fear to act  
A sin, like their black envy, 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, own  
So much to thy great fame, I ought to show  
My weakness in thy praise; to thus approve,  
Although it be less wit, is greater love:  
'Tis all our fancy aims at; and our tongues  
At best, will guilty prove of friendly wrongs.  
For, who would image out thy worth, great BEN,  
Should first be, what he praises; and his Pen  
Thy active brains should feed, which we can't have,  
Unless we could redeem Thee from the Grave.  
The only way that's left now, is to look  
Into thy Papers, to read o'er thy Book;  
And then remove thy fancies, there doth lie  
Some judgement, where we cannot make, t'apply  
Our reading: some, perhaps, may call this wit,  
And think, we do not steal, but only fit  
Thee to thy self, of all thy Marble wears,  
Nothing is truly ours, except the tears.  
O could we weep like Thee! we might convey  
New breath, and raise men from their Beds of Clay  
Unto a life of fame; he is not dead,  
Who by thy Muses hath been buried.  
Thrice happy those brave Heroes, whom I meet  
Wrapped in thy writings, as their winding-sheet:  
For, when the tribute unto Nature due,  
Was paid, they did receive new life from you;  
Which shall not be undated, since thy breath  
Is able to immortal, after death.  
Thus rescued from the dust, they did ne'er see  
True life, until they were entombed by Thee.   

You that pretend to Courtship, here admire  
Those pure and active flames, Love did inspire:  
And though he could have taken his Mistress ears,  
Beyond feigned sighs, false oaths, and forced tears;  
His heat was still so modest, it might warm,  
But do the Cloistered Votary no harm.  
The face he sometimes praises, but the mind,  
A fairer Saint, is in his Verse enshrined.   

He that would worthily set down his praise,  
Should study Lines as lofty as his Plays.  
The Roman Worthies did not seem to fight  
With braver spirit, than we see him write:  
His Pen their valour equals; and that Age  
Receives a greater glory from our Stage.  
Bold Catiline, at once Rome's hate and fear,  
Fare higher in his story doth appear:  
The flames those active Furies did inspire,  
Ambition and Revenge, his better fire  
Kindles afresh; thus lighted, they shall burn,  
Till Rome to its first nothing do return.  
Brave fall, had but the cause been likewise good!  
Had he so, for his Country, lost his blood!   

Some like not Tully in his own; yet while  
All do admire him in thy English style,  
I censure not; I rather think, that we  
May well his equal, thine we ne'er shall see.   DUDLEY DIGGS.  

To THE IMMORTALITY of my Learned Friend, M. JOHNSON.  
I Parled once with Death, and thought to yield,  
When thou advised'st me to keep the field,  
Yet if I fell, thou wouldst upon my Hearse,  
Breath the reviving spirit of thy Verse.  
I live, and to thy grateful Muse would pay,  
A Parallel of thanks, but that this day  
Of thy fair Rights, through th' innumerous light,  
That flows from thy Adorers, seems as bright,  
As when the Sun darts through his golden Hair,  
His Beams Diameter into the Air.  
In vain I then strive to increase thy glory,  
These Lights that go before make dark my story.  
Only I'll say, Heaven gave unto Thy Pen  
A Sacred power, Immortallizing men,  
And thou dispensing Life immortally,  
Dost now but sabbatise from work, not dye.  GEORGE FORTESCVE.  

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

WHat doth officious Fancy here prepare?  
Be't rather this rich Kingdoms charge & care  
To find a Virgin quarry whence no hand,  
 wrought a Tomb on vulgar Dust to stand,  
And thence bring for this work Materials fit,  
Great JOHNSON needs no Architect of Wit;  
Who forced from Art, received from Nature more  
Than doth survive Him, or e'er lived before.   

And Poets, with what veil soe'er you hide,  
Your aim, 'twill not be thought your grief, but pride  
Which that your Cypress never growth might want,  
Did it near his eternal Laurel plant.   

Heaven at the death of Princes, by the birth  
Of some new star, seems to instruct the Earth,  
How it resents our humane Fate. Then why  
Didst thou Wits most triumphant Monarch dye  
Without thy Comet? Did the Sky despair  
To teem a Fire, bright as thy glories were?  
Or is it by its Age, unfruitful grown,  
And can produce no light, but what is known,  
A common Mourner, when a Prince's fall  
Invites a Star t'attend the Funeral?  
But those prodigious Sights only create,  
Talk for the Vulgar, Heaven before thy Fate.  
That thou thyself mightst thy own Dirges hear,  
Made the sad stage close mourner for a year;  
The stage, (which as by an instinct divine,  
Instructed, seeing it's own Fate in Thine,  
And knowing how it owed its life to Thee)  
Prepared itself thy Sepulchre to be,  
And had continued so, but that Thy Wit,  
Which as the Soul, first animated it,  
Still hovers here below, and ne'er shall dye,  
Till Time be buried in eternity.   

But You! whose Comic labours on the stage,  
Against the envy of a froward age  
Hold combat! How will now your Vessels sail,  
The Seas so broken and the winds so frail,  
Such Rocks, such shallowes threatening every where,  
And johnson dead, whose Art your course might steer?   

Look up! where Seneca, and Sophocles,  
Quick Plautus, and sharp Aristophanes,  
Enlighten yond bright Orb! Doth not your eye,  
Among them, one fare larger fire, descry,  
At which their lights grow pale? 'tis johnson, there  
He shines your Star who was your Pilot here.   W. ABINGTON.  

Upon BEN: JOHNSON, the most excellent of Comic POETS.  
MIrror of Poets! Mirror of our Age!  
Which her whole Face beholding on thy stage,  
Pleased and displeased with her own faults endures,  
A remedy, like those whom Music cures,  
Thou not alone those various inclinations,  
Which Nature gives to Ages, Sexes, Nations,  
Hast traced with thy All-resembling Pen,  
But all that custom hath imposed on Men,  
Or illgot Habits, which distort them so,  
That scarce the Brother can the Brother know,  
Is represented to the wondering Eyes,  
Of all that see or read thy Comedies.  
Who ever in those Glasses looks may find,  
The spots return d, or graces of his mind;  
And by the help of so divine an Art,  
At leisure view, and dress his nobler part.  
Narcissus' cozened by that flattering Well,  
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,  
Had here discovering the deformed estate  
Of his fond mind, preserved himself with hate,  
But Virtue too, as well as Vice is clad,  
In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had  
Beheld what his high Fancy once embraced,  
Virtue with colours, speech and motion graced.  
The sundry Postures of Thy copious Muse,  
Who would express a thousand tongues must use,  
Whose Fates no less peculiar than 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 find,  
And all we can imagine in mankind.  E. WALLER.  

Upon the POET of His time, B. I: His honour F. and F.  
ANd is thy Glass run out? is that Oil 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 prevail 'gainst Nights three Daughters, but  
One still will spin, One Wind, the other Cut,  
Yet in despite of Spindle, Clue, and Knife,  
Thou in thy strenuous lines hast got a life,  
Which like thy Bay shall flourish every Age,  
While Sock or Buskin move upon the stage.  Sic Vaticinatur JA. HOWELL Ar.  

AN OFFERTORY AT THE TOMB OF THE FAMOUS POET BEN: JOHNSON.  
IF Souls departed lately hence do know  
How we perform the duties that we own  
Their Relics? will it not grieve thy spirit  
To see our dull devotion? thy merit  
Profaned by disproportiond Rites? thy Hearse  
Rudely defiled with Our unpolished Verse?  
Necessitie's our best excuse; 'tis in  
Our understanding, not our will we sin;  
'Gainst which 'tis now in vain to labour, we  
Did nothing know, but what was taught by Thee,  
The routed Soldiers when their Captains fall  
Forget all order, that men cannot call  
It properly a Battle that they fight;  
Nor we (Thou being dead) be said to write.  
'Tis noise we utter, nothing can be sung  
By those distinctly that have lost their Tongue;  
And therefore whatsoever the Subject be,  
All Verses now become thy ELEGY:  
For, when a liveless Poem shall be read,  
Th' afflicted Reader sighs, BEN: JONSON'S dead.  
This is thy Glory, that no Pen can raise  
A lasting Trophy in thy honoured praise;  
Since Fate (it seems) would have it so expressed,  
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 spread this Age as great  
As that which made thy learned MUSE so sweat,  
And toil to dissipate; until (at length)  
Purged by thy Art, it gained a lasting strength;  
And now secured by thy all-powerfull Writ,  
Can fear no more a like relapse of Wit:  
Though (to Our grief) we ever must despair,  
That any Age can raise Thee up an Heir.  JOHN VERNON. è societ: In: Temp.  

THe Muses fairest light in no dark time,  
The Wonder of a learned Age; the Line  
Which none can pass; the most proportioned Wit,  
To Nature, the best Judge of what was fit;  
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest PEN;  
The Voice most echoed by consenting Men,  
The Soul which answered best to all well said  
By others, and which most requital made,  
Tuned to the highest Key of ancient ROME,  
Returning all her Music with his own,  
In whom with Nature, Study claimed a part,  
And yet who to himself owed all his Art:  
Hear lies BEN: JOHNSON, every Age will look  
With sorrow here, with wonder on his BOOK.   


Who first reformed our Stage with justest Laws,  
And was the first best Judge in your own Cause?  
Who (when his Actors trembled for Applause)   

Can (with a noble Confidence) prefer  
His own, by right, to a whole Theatre;  
From Principles which he knew could not err.   

Who to his FABLE did his Persons fit,  
With all the Properties of Art and Wit,  
And above all (that could be Acted) writ.   

Who public Follies did to covert drive,  
Which he again could cunningly retrieve,  
Leaving them no ground to rest on, and thrive.   

Hear JONSON lies, whom had I named before  
In that one word alone, I had paid more  
Than can be now, when plenty makes me poor.   I. Cl.  

To the Memory of BEN. JOHNSON.  
AS when the Vestal hearth went out, no fire  
Less holy than the flame that did expire  
Can kindle it again: So at thy fall  
Our Wit, great BEN, is too Apocryphal  
To celebrate the loss, since 'tis too much  
To write thy Epitaph, and not be such.  
What thou wert, like th'hard Oracles of old,  
Without an ecstasy cannot be told.  
We must be ravished first, Thou must infuse  
Thyself into us both the Theme and Muse.  
Else, (though we all conspired to make thy Hearse  
Our Works) so that 'thad been but one great Verse,  
Though the Priest had translated for that time  
The Liturgy, and buried thee in Rhyme,  
So that in Meeter we had heard it said,  
Poetic dust is to Poetic laid:  
And though that dust being Shakspears thou mightst have  
Not his room, 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 frail solemnity; Verses on Thee  
And not like thine, would but kind Libels be;  
And we, (not speaking thy whole Worth) should raise  
Worse blots, than they that envied thy praise.  
Indeed, thou needest us not, since above all  
Invention, thou wert thine own Funeral.  
Hereafter, when Time hath fed on thy Tomb,  
Th' inscription worn out, and the Marble dumb;  
So that 'twould pose a Critic to restore  
Half words, and words expired so long before.  
When thy maimed Statue hath a sentenced face,  
And looks that are the horror of the place,  
That 'twill be learning, and Antiquity,  
And ask a SELDEN to say, this was Thee,  
Thou'lt have a whole Name still, nor needst thou fear  
That will be ruined, or lose nose, or hair.  
Let others write so thin, that they can't be  
Authors till rotten, no Posterity  
Can add to thy Works; 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 thou'rt of Homer's years, no man will say  
Thy Poems are less worthy, but more grey:  
'tis Bastard-Poetry, and o'th' false blood  
Which can't without succession be good.  
Things that will always last, do thus agree  
With things eternal; th'at once perfect be.  
Scorn then their censures, who gave't out, thy Wit  
As long upon a Comedy did sit  
As Elephants bring forth; and that thy blotts  
And mending took more time than Fortune plots:  
That such thy drought was, and so great thy thirst,  
That all thy Plays were drawn at th' Mermaid first:  
That the Kings yearly Butt wrote, and his Wine  
Hath more right than thou to thy CATILINE.  
Let such men keep a diet, let their wit  
Be racked, and while they writ, suffer a fit:  
When  felt tortures which outpaine the gout,  
Such, as with less, the State draws treason out;  
Though they should the length of consumptions lie  
Sick of their verse, and of their Poem die,  
●Twould not be thy worst Scoene, but would at last  
Confirm their boastings, and show made in haste.  
He that writes well, writes quick, since the rule's true,  
Nothing is slowly done, that's always new.  
So when thy FOX had ten times acted been,  
Each day was first, but that 'twas cheaper seen.  
And so thy ALCHEMIST played over and over,  
Was new o'th' Stage when 'twas not at the door.  
We, like the Actors did repeat, the Pit  
The first time saw, the next conceived thy Wit:  
Which was cast in those forms, such rules, such Arts,  
That but to some not half thy Acts were parts:  
Since of some silken judgements we may say,  
They filled a Box two hours, but saw no Play.  
So that th' unlearned lost their money, and  
Scholars saved only, that could understand.  
Thy Scoene was free from Monsters, no hard Plot  
Called down a God t'untie th'unlikely knot.  
The Stage was still a Stage, two entrances  
Were not two parts o'th' World, disjoined by Seas.  
Thine were land-Tragedies, no Prince was found  
To swim a whole Scoene out, then o'th' Stage drowned;  
Pitched fields, as Red-Bull wars, still felt thy doom,  
Thou laidst no sieges to the Musique-Roome;  
Nor wouldst allow to thy best Comedies  
Humours that should above the People rise:  
Yet was thy language and thy style so high,  
Thy Sock toth' ankle, Buskin reached toth' thigh;  
And both so chaste, so 'bove Dramatic clean,  
That we both safely saw, and lived thy Scene.  
No foul lose line did prostitute thy wit,  
Thou wrot'st thy Comedies, didst not commit.  
We did the vice arraigned not tempting hear,  
And were made Judges, not bad parts byth' ear.  
For thou even sin 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 sharpness, but thy salt  
Served but with pleasure to reform the fault.  
Men were laughed into virtue, and none more  
Hated Face acted then were such before.  
So did thy sting not blood, but humours draw,  
So much doth Satire more correct than Law;  
Which was not nature in thee, as some call  
Thy teeth, who say thy wit lay in thy Gall.  
That thou didst quarrel first, and then, in spite,  
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 meat took notes, and thy discourse was net.  
We know thy free- vein had this innocence,  
To spare the party, and to brand th' offence.  
And the just indignation thou wert in  
Did not expose Shift, but his tricks and gin.  
Thou mightst have used th' old Comic freedom, these  
Might have seen themselves played, like Socrates.  
Like Cleon, Mammon might the Knight have been,  
If, as Greek Authors, thou hadst turned Greeke spleen;  
And hadst not chosen rather to translate  
Their learning into English, not their rate:  
Indeed this last, if thou hadst been bereft  
Of thy humanity, might be called Theft.  
The other was not; whatsoever was strange  
Or borrowed in thee did grow thine by th' change.  
Who without Latin helps hadst been as rare  
As Beaumond, Fletcher, or as Shakespeare were:  
And like them, from thy native Stock couldst say,  
Poets and Kings are not borne every day.   

In the memory of the most Worthy BENJAMIN JOHNSON.  

FAther of Poets, though thine own great day  
Struck from thyself, scorns that a weaker ray  
Should twine in lustre with it: yet my flame,  
Kindled from thine, flies upwards towards thy Name.  
For in the acclamation of the less  
There's Piety, though from it no access.  
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 seen  
Better to some, that draws the veil between.   

And what can more be hoped, since that divine  
Free filling spirit took its flight with thine?  
Men may have fury, but no raptures now;  
Like Witches, charm, yet not know whence, nor how.  
And through distemper, grown not strong but fierce;  
In stead of writings, only rave in verse:  
Which when by thy Laws judged, 'twill be confessed,  
'Twas not to be inspired, but be possessed.   

Where shall we find a Muse like thine, that can  
So well present and show man unto man,  
That each one finds his twin, and thinks thy Art  
Extends not to the gestures, but the heart?  
Where one so showing life to life, that we  
Think thou taughtst Custom, and not Custom thee?  
Manners, that were Themes to thy Scenes still flow  
In the same stream, and are their comments now:  
These times thus living o'er thy Models, we  
Think them not so much wit, as prophesy:  
And though we know the character, may swear  
A sybil's finger hath been busy there.   

Things common thou speak'st proper, which though known  
For public, stamped by thee grow thence thine own:  
Thy thoughts so ordered, so expressed, that we  
Conclude that thou didst not discourse, but see  
Language so mastered, that thy numerous feet,  
Laden with genuine words, do always meet  
Each in his art; nothing unfit doth fall,  
Showing the Poet, like the wiseman, All:  
Thine equal skill thus wresting nothing, made  
Thy pen seem not so much to write as trade.   

That life, that Venus of all things, which we  
Conceive or show, proportioned decency,  
Is not found scattered in thee here and there,  
But, like the soul, is wholly every where.  
No strange perplexed maze doth pass for plot,  
Thou always dost untie, not cut the knot.  
Thy labyrinths doors are opened by one thread  
Thattyes, and runs through all that's done or said.  
No power comes down with learned hat and rod,  
Wit only, and contrivance is thy god.   

'Tis easy to gild gold: there's small skill spent  
Where even the first rude mass is ornament:  
Thy Muse took harder metals, purged and boiled,  
Laboured and tried, heated, and beat and toiled,  
Sifted the dross, filled roughness, than gave dress,  
Vexing rude subjects into comeliness.  
Be it thy glory then, that we may say,  
Thou runnest where th' foot was hindered by the way.   

Nor dost thou pour out, but dispense thy vein,  
Skilled when to spare, and when to entertain:  
Not like our wits, who into one piece do  
Throw all that they can say, and their friends too,  
Pumping themselves, for one Terms noise so dry,  
As if they made their wills in Poetry.  
And such spruce compositions press the stage,  
When men transcribe themselves, and not the age.  
Both sorts of Plays are thus like pictures shown,  
Thine of the common life, theirs of their own.   

Thy models yet are not so framed, as we  
May call them libels, and not imagery:  
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 wreathed  
About his sleeping son, and as he breathed,  
Drink in his soul, did so the shoot contrive,  
To kill the beast, but keep the child alive.  
So dost thou aim thy darts, which, even when  
They kill the poisons, do but wake the men.  
Thy thunders thus but purge, and we endure  
Thy lancings better then another's cure;  
And justly too: for th' age grows more unsound  
From the fool's balsam, than the wiseman's wound.   

No rotten talk broke for a laugh; no page  
Commenced 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 countenance ill, and use  
The plea of strict life for a loser Muse:  
No Woman ruled thy quill: we can descry  
No verse borne under any Cynthia's eye:  
Thy Star was judgement only, and right sense,  
Thyself being to thyself an influence.  
Stout beauty is thy grace: Stern pleasures do  
Present delights, but mingle horrors too:  
Thy Muse doth thus like Jove's fierce girl appear,  
With a fair hand, but grasping of a Spear.   

Where are they now that cry, thy Lamp did drink  
More oil than th' Author wine, while he did think?  
We do embrace their slander: thou hast writ  
Not for dispatch but fame; no market wit:  
'Twas not thy care, that it might pass and sell,  
But that it might endure, and be done well:  
Nor wouldst thou venture it unto the ear,  
Until the file would not make smooth, but wear:  
Thy verse came seasoned hence, and would not give;  
Borne not to feed the Author, but to live:  
Whence 'mong the choicer Judges rise a strife,  
To make thee read as Classic in thy life.  
Those that do hence applause, and suffrage beg,  
'Cause they can Poems form upon one leg,  
Writ not to time, but to the Poet's day:  
There's difference between fame, and sudden pay.  
These men sing Kingdoms falls, as if that fate  
Used the same force t' a Village, and a State:  
These serve Thyestes bloody supper in,  
As if it had only a salad been:  
Their Catilines are but Fencers, whose fights rise  
Not to the fame of battle, but of prize.  
But thou still puttest true passions on; dost write  
With the same courage that tried Captains fight;  
Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things;  
Low without creeping, high without loss of wings;  
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough-care,  
Big without swelling, without painting fair:  
They wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,  
Are not wits, but materials of wit.  
What though thy searching wit did rake the dust  
Of time, and purge old metals of their rust?  
Is it no labour, no art, think they, to  
Snatch Shipwrecks from the deep, as Dyvers do?  
And rescue Jewels from the covetous sand,  
Making the Seas hid wealth adorn the Land?  
What though thy culling Muse did rob the store  
Of Greek, and Latin gardens to bring over  
Plants to thy native soil? Their virtues were  
Improved fare more, by being planted here.  
If thy Still to their essence doth refine  
So many drugs, is not the water thine?  
Thefts thus become just works: they and their grace  
Are wholly thine: thus doth the stamp and face  
Make that the Kings, that's ravished from the mine:  
In others then 'tis oar, in thee 'tis coin.   

Blessed life of Authors, unto whom we own  
Those that we have, and those that we want too:  
The art all so good, that reading makes thee worse,  
And to have writ so well's thine only curse.  
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate  
That servile base dependence upon fate:  
Success thou ne'er thoughtst virtue, nor that fit,  
Which chance, and th' age's fashion did make hit;  
Excluding those from life in aftertime,  
Who into Po'try first brought luck and rhyme:  
Who thought the people's breath good air: sty'ld name  
What was but noise; and getting Briefs for fame  
Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence  
Made commendation a benevolence:  
Thy thoughts were their own Laurel, and did win  
That best applause of being crowned within.   

And though th' exacting age, when deeper years  
Had interwoven snow among thy hairs,  
Would not permit thou shouldst grow old, cause they  
Near by thy writings knew thee young; we may  
Say justly, they're ungrateful, when they more  
Condemned thee, cause thou wert so good before:  
Thine Art was thine Arts blur, and they'll confess  
Thy strong perfumes made them not smell thy less.  
But, though to err with thee be no small skill,  
And we adore the last draughts of thy Quill:  
Though those thy thoughts, which the now queasy age,  
Doth count but clods, and refuse of the stage,  
Will come up Porcelaine-wit some hundreds hence,  
When there will be more manners, and more sense;  
'Twas judgement yet to yield, and we afford  
Thy silence as much fame, as once thy word:  
Who like an aged oak, the leaves being gone,  
Waste food before, art now religion;  
Thought still more rich, though not so richly stored,  
Viewed and enjoyed before, but now adored.   

Great soul of numbers, whom we want and boast;  
Like curing gold, most valued now th' art lost;  
When we shall feed on refuse offals, when  
We shall from corn to acorns turn again;  
Then shall we see that these two names are one,  
JOHNSON and Poetry, which now are gone.   W. CARTWAIGHT.  

An Elegy upon BEN: JOHNSON.  
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 stuff;  
I find no room for praise, but Elegy,  
And there but name the day that thou didst dye.  
That men may know thou didst so, for they will  
Hardly believe disease or age could kill  
A body so informed, with such a soul,  
As, like thy verse, might Fate itself control.  
But thou art gone, and we like greedy Heirs,  
That snatch the fruit of their dead Father's cares,  
Begin t'enquire what means thou left'st behind  
For us pretended Heirs unto thy mind.  
And myself not the latest began to look  
And found the Inventory in thy Book;  
A stock for writers to set up withal:  
That out of thy full Comedies, their small  
And slender wits by vexing much thy writ  
And their own brains, 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 Commonweal:  
Of dancing Courtiers, as if Poetry  
Were made to set out their activity.  
Learning great store for us to feed upon,  
But little fame; that with thyself is gone,  
And like a desperate debt, bequeathed, not paid  
Before thy death has us the poorer made.  
Whilst we with mighty labour it pursue.  
And after all our toil, not find it due.  IO: RUTTER.  

To the Memory of immortal BEN.  

TO write is easy; but to write of thee  
Truth: will be thought to forfeit modesty.  
So fare beyond conceit, thy strengths appear;  
That almost all will doubt, what all must hear.  
For, when the World shall know, that Pindar's height,  
Plautus his wit, and Seneca's grave weight,  
Horace his matchless 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 propertyed)  
Through all thy Works; And like a Torrent move,  
Rolling the Muses to the Court of Jove,  
Wits general Tribe, will soon entitle thee  
Heir to Apollo's ever verdant Tree.  
And 'twill by all concluded be, the Stage  
Is widowed now; was bedrid by thy age.   

Aswell as Empire, wit his Zenith hath,  
Nor can the rage of time, or tyrant's wrath  
Encloud so bright a flame: But it will shine  
In spite of envy, till it grow divine.  
As when Augustus reigned, and war did cease,  
Rome's bravest wits were ushered in by peace:  
So in our Halcyon days, we have had now  
Wits, to which, all that after come, must bow.  
And should the Stage compose herself a Crown  
Of all those wits, which hitherto sh'as known:  
Though there be many that about her brow  
Like sparkling stones, might a quick lustre throw:  
Yet, Shakespeare, Beaumond, Johnson, these three shall  
Make up the Gem in the point Vertical.  
And now since JOHNSON'S gone, we well may say,  
The Stage hath seen her glory and decay.  
Whose judgement was't refined it? Or who  
Gave Laws, by which hereafter all must go.  
But solid JOHNSON? from whose full strong quill,  
Each line did like a Diamond drop distil,  
Though hard, yet clear. Thalia that had skipped  
Before, but like a Maygame girl, now stripped  
Of all her Mimic Jigs, became a sight  
With mirth, to flow each pleased spectators light.  
And in such graceful measures, did discover  
Her beauties now; that every eye turned Lover.   

Who is't shall make with great Sejanus fall,  
Not the Stage crack, but th' Universe and all?  
Wild Catiline's stern fire, who now shall show?  
Or quenched with milk, stilled down by Cicero?  
Where shall old Authors in such words be shown,  
As vex their Ghosts, that they are not their own?   

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 years;  
Whereas light Venus and the giddy Moon,  
In one or some few days their courses run.  
Slow are substantial bodies: But to things  
That eyrie are; has Nature added wings.  
Each trivial Poet that can chant a Rhyme,  
May chatter out his own wits Funeral chime:  
And those slight nothings that so soon are made,  
Like Mushrooms, 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 stain,  
Will require sweat, and rubbing of the brain.  
Such were those things he left. For some may be  
Eccentrick, yet with Axioms main agree.  
This I'll presume to say. When Time has made  
Slaughter of Kings that in the World have swayed:  
A greener Bays shall Crown BEN. JONSON'S Name,  
Then shall be wreathed about their Regal Fame.  
For Numbers reach to Infinite. But He  
Of whom I writ this, has prevented me,  
And boldly said so much in his own praise,  
No other pen need any Trophy raise.   OWE. FELLTHAM.  

On BEN: JONSON. TO MEMORY.  
I Do not blame their pains who did not doubt  
By labour of the Circle to find out  
The Quadrature; nor can I think it strange  
That others should prove constancy in change.  
He studied not in vain, who hoped to give  
A Body to the Echo, make it live,  
Be seen, and felt; nor he whose Art would borrow  
Belief for shaping yesterday, to morrow:  
But here I yield; Invention, Study, Cost,  
Time, and the Art of Art itself is lost.  
When any frail ambition undertakes  
For Honour, profit, praise, or all their sakes,  
To speak unto the world in perfect sense,  
Pure Judgement JONSON, 'tis an excellence  
Suited his Pen alone, which yet to do,  
Requires himself, 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 abhorred,  
Let Memory be nothing but a word:  
Grant JONSON th' only Genius of the Times,  
Fix him a constellation in all Rhimes,  
All height, all secrecies of wit invoke  
The virtue of his Name, to ease the yoke  
Of barbarism; yet this lends only praise  
To such as write, but adds not to his Bays:  
For he will grow more fresh in every Story,  
Out of the perfumed Spring of his own Glory.  GEORGE DONNE.  

A Funeral sacrifice, to the sacred memory of his thrice honoured Father BEN. JOHNSON.  
I Cannot grave, nor carve; else would I give  
Thee Satues, Sculptures, and thy name should live  
In Tombs, and brass, until the stones, or rust  
Of thine own Monument, mix with thy dust:  
But Nature has afforded me a slight  
And easy Muse, yet one that takes her flight  
Above the vulgar pitch. BEN she was thine,  
Made by adoption free and genuine.  
By virtue of thy Charter, which from Heaven,  
By Jove himself, before thy birth was given.  
The Sisters Nine this secret did declare,  
Who of Jove's counsel, and His daughters are.  
These from Parnassus' hill came running down,  
And though an Infant did with Laurels crown.  
Thrice they him kissed, and took him in their arms,  
And dancing round, encircled him with charms.  
Pallas her Virgin breast did thrice distil  
Into his lips, and him with Nectar fill.  
When he grew up to years, his mind was all  
On Verses: Verses, that the Rocks might call  
To follow him, and Hell itself command,  
And wrest Jove's threefold thunder from his hand.  
The Satyrs oft times hemmed him in a ring,  
And gave him pipes and reeds to hear him sing:  
Whose vocal notes, tuned to Apollo's Lyre,  
The Sirens, and the Muses did admire.  
The Nymphs to him their gems and coral sent;  
And did with Swans, and Nightingales present  
Gifts fare beneath his worth. The golden Ore,  
That lies on Tagus or Pactolus' shore,  
Might not compare with him, nor that pure sand  
The Indians find upon Hydaspes' Strand.  
His fruitful raptures shall grow up to seed.  
And as the Ocean does the Rivers feed,  
So shall his wits rich veins, the World supply  
With unexhausted wealth, and ne'er be dry.  
For whether He, like a fine thread does file  
His terser Poems in a Comic style,  
Or treats of tragic furies, and him list,  
To draw his lines out with a stronger twist:  
Minerva's, nor Arachne's loom 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 Flowers.  
Never did so much strength, or such a spell  
Of art, and eloquence of papers dwell.  
For whilst that he in colours, full and true,  
men's natures, fancies, and their humours drew  
In method, order, matter, sense and grace,  
Fitting each person to his time and place;  
Knowing to move, to slack, or to make haste,  
Binding the middle with the first and last:  
He framed all minds, and did all passions stir,  
And with a bridle guide the Theatre.  
To say now He is dead, or to maintain  
A Paradox he lives, were labour vain:  
Earth must to earth. But His fair soul does wear  
Bright Ariadne's Crown. Or is placed near,  
Where Orpheus' Harp turns round with Leda's Swan:  
Astrologers, demonstrate where you can,  
Where His Star shines, and what part of the Sky,  
Holds His compendious Divinity,  
There He is fixed, I know it, cause from thence,  
Myself have lately received influence.  
The Reader smiles; but let no man deride  
The Emblem of my love, not of my pride.  SHACKERLEY MARMION, In Artibus Magister.  

On the best of English Poets, BEN: JONSON, Deceased.  
SO seems a Star to shoot; when from our sight  
Falls the deceit, not from its loss of light;  
We want use of a Soul, who merely know  
What to our passion, or our sense we own:  
By such a hollow glass, our cozened eye  
Concludes alike, All dead, whom it sees die.  
Nature is knowledge here, but unrefined,  
Both differing, as the Body from the Mind:  
Laurel and Cypress else, had grown together,  
And withered without Memory to either;  
Thus undistinguished, might in every part  
The Sons of Earth vie with the Sons of Art.  
Forbidden it, (holy Reverence) to his NAME,  
Whose Glory hath filled up the Book of Fame!  
Where in fair Capitals, free, uncontrolled,  
JOHNSON, a work of Honour lives inrouled:  
Creates that Book a Work; adds this fare more,  
'Tis finished what unperfect was before.  
The Muses, first in Greece begot, in Rome  
Brought forth, our best of Poets hath called home,  
Nursed, taught, and planted here; that Thames now sings  
The Delphian Altars, and the sacred Springs.  
By Influence of this Sovereign, like the Spheres,  
Moved each by other, the most low (in years)  
Contented in their harmony; though some  
Malignantly aspected, overcome  
With popular opinion, aimed at Name  
More than desert: yet in despite of shame  
Even they though foiled by his contempt of wrongs,  
Made music to the harshness of their songs.  
Drawn to the life of every line and limb,  
He (in his truth of Art, and that in him)  
Lives yet, and will, whiles letters can be read  
The loss is ours; now hope of life is dead.  
Great men, and worthy of Report, must fall  
Into their earth, and sleeping there sleep all:  
Since He, whose Pen in every strain did use  
To drop a Verse, and every Verse a Muse,  
Is vowed to heaven; as having with fair glory,  
Sung thankes of Honour, or some nobler Story.  
The Court, the University, the heat  
Of theatres, with what can else beget  
Belief, and admiration, clearly prove  
Our POET fit in merit, as in love:  
Yet if He do not at his full appear,  
Survey him in his WORKS, and know him there.  JOHN FORD.  

Upon the Death of Mr. BEN. JOHNSON.  
'tIs not secure to be too learned, or good,  
These are hard names, & now scarce understood:  
Dull flagging souls with lower parts, may have  
The vain oftents of pride upon their Grave,  
Cut with some fair Inscription, and true cry,  
That both the Man and Epitaph there lie!  
Whilst those that soar above the Vulgar pitch,  
And are not in their bags, but studies rich,  
Must fall without a line, and only 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 zeal profane thy Hearse.  
It is a task above our skill, if we  
Presume to mourn our own dead Elegy;  
Wherein, like Bankrupts in the stock of Fame,  
To patch our credit up, we use thy Name;  
Or cunningly to make our dross to pass,  
Do set a jewel in a foil of brass:  
No, 'tis the glory of thy well-known Name,  
To be eternised, not in verse but Fame.  
JOHNSON! that's weight enough to crown thy stone:  
And make the Marble piles to sweat and groan  
Under the heavy load! A Name shall stand  
Fixed to thy Tomb, till times destroying hand  
Crumble our dust together, and this All  
Sink to its Grave, at the great Funeral.  
If some less learned age neglect thy pen,  
Eclipse thy flames, and lose the Name of BEN,  
In spite of ignorance thou must survive  
In thy fair progeny; That shall revive  
Thy scattered ashes in the skirts of death,  
And to thy fainting Name give a new breath;  
That twenty ages after, men shall say  
(If the World's story reach so long a day,)  
Pindar and Plautus with their double Choir  
Have well translated BEN the English Lyre.  
What sweets were in the Greek or Latin known,  
A natural Metaphor has made thine own:  
Their lofty language in thy Phrase so dressed,  
And neat conceits in our own tongue expressed,  
That Ages hence, Critics shall question make  
Whether the Greeks and Romans English spoke.  
And though thy Fancies 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 sixpences damn thee from the Stage,  
And with their Mast and Achorne-stomacks, ran  
To t'h nasty sweep of thy Servingman,  
Before thy Cates, and swore thy stronger food,  
'Cause not by them digested, was not good;  
These Moles thy scorn and pity did but raise,  
They were as fit to judge as we to praise.  
Were all the choice of wit and language shown  
In one brave Epitaph upon thy Stone,  
Had learned Donne, Beaumond, and Randolph, all  
Survived thy Fate, and sung thy Funeral,  
Their Notes had been too low: Take this from me—  
None but thyself could write a verse for thee.  R. BRIDEOAKE, A. M. N. C. Oxon.  

On Mr. BEN. JOHNSON.  

POet of Princes, Prince of Poets (we  
If to Apollo well may pray, to thee.)  
Give Glow-worms leave to peep, who till thy Night  
Can not be seen, we darkened were with Light.  
For Stars t'appear after the fall o'th' Sun,  
Is at the least modest presumption.  
I've seen a great Lamp lighted by the small  
Spark of a Flint, found in a Field or Wall.  
Our thinner verse faintly may shadow forth  
A dull reflection of thy glorious worth;  
And (like a Statue homely fashioned) raise  
Some Trophies to thy memory, though not Praise.  
Those shallow Sirs, who want sharp sight to look  
On the Majestic splendour of thy Book.  
That rather choose to hear an Archy's prate,  
Then the full sense of a learned Laureate,  
May when they see thy Name thus plainly writ,  
Admire the solemn measures of thy wit,  
And like thy Works beyond a gaudy Show  
Of Board's and Canvas, wrought by INIGO.  
Ploughmen who puzzled are with Figures, come  
By Tallies to the reckoning of a Sum.  
And Milksop Heirs, which from their Mothers Lap  
Scarce travailed, know fare Countries by a Map.   

Shakespeare may make grief merry, Beaumont's style  
Ravish and melt anger into a smile;  
In winter nights, or after meals they be,  
I must confess very good company:  
But thou exact'st our best hours industry;  
We may read them; we ought to study thee:  
Thy Scenes are precepts, every verse doth give  
Counsel, and teach us not to laugh, but live.   

You that with towering thoughts presume so high,  
(Swelled with a vain ambitious Tympany)  
To dream on sceptres, whose brave mischief calls  
The blood of Kings to their last Funerals:  
Learn from Sejanus his high fall, to prove  
To thy dread Sovereign a sacred love,  
Let him suggest a reverend fear to thee,  
And may his Tragedy, Thy Lecture be.  
Learn the compendious Age of slippery Power  
That's built on blood; and may one little hour  
Teach thy bold rashness that it is not safe  
To build a Kingdom on a Caesar's grave.  
Thy Plays were whipped and libelled, only 'cause  
theyare good, and savour of our Kingdom's Laws;  
HISTRIOMASTIX (lightning like) doth wound  
Those things alone that solid are and sound.  
Thus guilty Men hate justice; so a glass  
Is sometimes broke for showing a foul Face.  
There's none that wish Thee Rods instead of Bays,  
But such, whose very hate adds to thy Praise.   

Let Scribblers (that writ Post, and versify  
With no more leisure than we cast a Die)  
Spur on their Pegasus, and proudly cry,  
This Verse I made i'th' twinkling of an eye.  
Thou couldst have done so, hadst thou thought it fit;  
But 'twas the wisdom of thy Muse to sit  
And weigh each syllable; suffering nought to pass  
But what could be no better than it was.  
Those that keep pompous State ne'er go in haste;  
Thou wentest before them all, though not so fast.  
While their poor Cobweb-stuffe finds as quick Fate  
As Birth, and sells like Almanacs out of date;  
The marble Glory of thy laboured Rhyme  
Shall live beyond the Calendar of Time.  
Who will their Meteors 'bove thy Sun advance?  
Thine are the Works of judgement, theirs of chance.  
How this whole Kingdom's in thy debt! we have  
From others Periwigs and Paints, to save  
Our ruined Sculls and Faces; but to Thee  
We own our Tongues, and Fancies remedy.  
Thy Poems make us Poets; we may lack  
(Reading thy BOOK) stolen sentences and Sack.  
He that can but one speech of thine rehearse,  
Whether he will or no, must make a Verse.  
Thus Trees give fruit, the kernels of that Fruit,  
Do bring forth Trees, which in more branches shoot.  
Our canting ENGLISH (of itself 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 hear us speak 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 Classic Authors; and  
As Greek and Latin taught in every Land.  
The cringing Mounsieur shall thy Language vent,  
When he would melt his Wench with Compliment.  
Using thy Phrases he may have his wish  
Of a coy Nun, without an angry Pish.  
And yet in all thy POEMS there is shown  
Such Chastity, that every Line's a Zone.  
Rome will confess that thou mak'st Caesar talk  
In greater state and pomp than he could walk.  
Catiline's tongue is the true edge of swords,  
We now not only hear, but feel his words.  
Who Tully in thy Idiom understands  
Will swear that his Orations are commands.   

But that which could with richer Language dress  
The highest sense, cannot thy Worth express.  
Had I thy own Invention (which affords  
" Words above Action, matter above words)  
To crown thy Merits, I should only be  
Sumptuously poor, low in Hyperbole.   RICHARD WEST.  


OUr Bays (me thinks) are withered, and they look  
As if (though thunder-free) with envy, strooke;  
While the triumphant Cypress boast to be  
Designed, as fit for thy company.   

Where shall we now find one dares boldly write,  
Free from base flattery yet as void of spite?  
That grovels not in's Satyrs, but soars high,  
Strikes at the mounting vices, can descry  
With his quick eagle's Pen those glorious crimes,  
That either dazzle, or affright the Times?  
Thy strength of judgement oft did thwart the tide  
O'th' foaming multitude, when to their side  
Thronged plush, and silken censures, whilst it chose,  
(As that which could distinguish Men from ,  
Faction from judgement) still to keep thy Ba●es  
From the suspicion of a vulgar praise.  
But why wrong I thy memory whilst I strive,  
In such a Verse as mine to keeped alive?  
Well we may toil, and show our wits the rack;  
Torture our needy fancies, yet still lack  
Worthy Expressions Thy great loss to moan,  
Being none can fully praise thee but thy own.   R. MEADE.  

UPON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN JOHNSON.  
LEt thine own Sylla (BEN) arise, and try  
To teach my thoughts an angry Ecstasy;  
That I may fright Contempt, and with just darts  
Of fury stick thy Palsy in their Hearts:  
But why do I rescue thy Name from those  
That only cast away their ears in Prose:  
Or, if some better Brain arrive so high,  
To venture Rhimes, 'tis but Court-Balladry,  
Singing thy death in such an uncouth Tone,  
As it had been an Execution.  
What are his fauls (O Envy!) that you speak  
English at Court, the learned Stage acts Greeke?  
That Latin He reduced, and could command  
That which your Shakespeare scarce could understand?  
That He exposed you Zelots', to make known  
Your Profanation; and not his own?  
That One of such a fervent Nose, should be  
Posed by a Puppet in DIVINITY?  
Fame writ 'em on his Tomb, and let him have  
Their Accusations for an Epitaph:  
Nor think it strange if such thy Scenes defy,  
That erect Scaffolds 'gainst Authority.  
Who now will plot to cousin Vice, and tell  
The Trick and Policy 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 Virtue cannot die, though Stones  
Loaded with Epitaphs do press his Bones:  
He lives to me; spite of this Martyrdom:  
BEN, is the self same POET in the Tomb.  
You that can Aldermen new Wits create,  
Know, JONSON'S Sceleton is Laureate.  H. RAMSAY.  

En  
jonsonus noster  
Lyricorum Drammaticorumque  
Coriphaeus  
Qui  
Pallid 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: JONSONI 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  
Vberior testis: totidem quos secula norunt,  
Solus tu dignus, cuius praeconia spiret,  
Deliquium Musarum, & victi facta Poetae.   

Quis nescit, Roman tuos, in utrâque triumphos  
Militiâ, Laurique decus mox sceptra secutum:  
Virgilius quoque Caesar erat, nec ferre priorem  
Noverat: Augustum fato dilatus in aevum,  
 Regemvatem jactares regia, Teque  
Suspiceres gemino praelustrem Roma Monarchâ.   

En penitus toto divisos orbe Brittannos,  
Munera jactantes eadem, similique beatos  
Fortuna; haec quoque secla suum videre Maronem,  
Caesarei vixit qui laetus imagine sceptri,  
Emplevitque suum Romana carmine nomen.   

Vtque viam cernas, langosque ad summa paratus;  
En series eadem, vatumque simillimus ordo.  
Quis neget incultum Lucreti carmen, & Enni  
Deformes numeros, Musae incrementa Latinae?   

Haud aliter nostri praemissa in principis ortum  
Ludicra Chauceri, classisque incompta sequentum;  
Nascenti aptaparum divina haec machina regno,  
In nostrum servanda fuit, tantaeque 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, demissaque nomina semper  
Candidior fama excipiat; sed parcite Divi,  
Si majora vocant, si pagina sanctior urget.  
Est vobis decor, et nativae gratia Musae,  
Quae trahit atque tenet, quae me modô laeta remittit,  
Excitum modô in alta rapit, versatque legentem.   

Sed quàm te memorem vatum Deus: O novagentis  
Gloria & ignoto turgescens Musa cothurno!  
Quàm solidat vires, quàm pingui robore surgens  
Invaditque hauritque animam: haud temerarius ille  
Qui mos est reliquis, probat obvia, magnaque fundit  
Felici tantum genio; sed destinat ictum,  
Sed vafer et sapiens cunctator praevia sternit,  
Furtivoque gradu subvectus in ardua, tandem  
Dimittit pleno correptos fulmine sensus.   

Huc, precor, accedat quisquis primo igne calentem  
Ad numeros sua Musa vocat, nondumque subacti  
Ingenij novitate tumens in carmina fertur  
Non normae legisve memor; quis ferre soluti  
Naufragium ingenij poterit, mentisque 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, conjurataeque Camaenae,  
Divinas furias & non imitable fulmen!  
O verum Ciceronis opus, linguaeque disertae,  
Elogium spirans: O vox aeterna Catonis,  
Caesaream reserans fraudem, retrahensque sequaces  
Patricios in caedem, & funera certa reorum:  
Quis fando expediat primae solennia pompae,  
Et circumfusi studium plaususque 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, celebrique ruina  
Volveris, & gravius terrent exempla Theatri.   

At tu stas nunquam ruituro in culmine vates,  
Despiciens auras, & fallax numen Amici,  
Tutus honore tuo, genitaeque 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, secutus  
Contexit sua fila, suique est Nominis Author.   T. TERRENT.  

VATUM 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  
Jugique fluxu non reditura se prodegit Anima,  
Jacuit Sibyllae cadaver,  
Vel trepidis adhuc cultoribus consulendum.  
Nulli se longius indulsit DEUS, nulli aegrius valedixit;  
Pares testatus flammas,  
Dum Exul, ac dum Incola.  
Annorumque 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 judicium commisisti,  
Bis Entheatus:  
Aliasque 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,  
 tandem Ingenium sine veniâ placiturum  
Possideret Britannia,  
Miraretur Orbis,  
Nihilque inveniret scriptis Tuis donandum, praeter famam.  
Quòd Prologi igitùr  
Velut Magnatum Propylaea Domini Titulos proferunt,  
Perpetuumque celebratur Argumentum, Ipse Author,  
Non Arrogantis hoc est, sed judicantis,  
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,  
Vnusque omnes exprimens.  
Cum frondes Alij Laureas Decerpunt, Tu totum Nemus vindicas,  
Nec Adulator Laudas, nec invidus perstringis:  
Vtrumque exosus.  
●el Sacrificio Tuo Mella, vel Medicinae Acetum immiscere.  
Nec Intenso nimis spiritu Avenam Dirupisti:  
Nec exili nimis Tubam emaculasti;  
Servatis utrinque 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,  
Facetiasque Manibus exprimendas,  
Adoranda posteris Ducis vestigia, et nobis unus es Theatrum Metari.  
Non Arenae spectacula scena exhibuit Tua,  
Nec Poemata, sed Poesin ipsam parturijt,  
Populoque Mentes, et Leges ministravit,  
Quibus Te damnare possent, si Tu poteras peccare.  
Sic et Oculos spectanti praestas, et spectacula;  
Scenamque 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,  
Truduntque in Scenam vitia, Morbo Poetae.  
Quibus Musa Pagis primisque Plaustris apta,  
Praemoriturum vati carmen,  
Non edunt, sed abortiunt;  
Cui ipsum etiam praelum conditorium est,  
Nouâque Lucina fraude in Tenebras emittuntur Authores,  
Dum Poemata sic ut Diaria,  
Suo tantum Anno et Regioni effingunt,  
Sic quoque Plauti Moderni sales,  
Ipsi tantum Plauto 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉:  
Et vernaculae nimium Aristophanis facetiae  
Non extra suum Theatrum Plausus invenerunt:  
Tu interim  
Saculi spiras quoque post futuri Genium.  
Idemque Tuum et Orbis Theatrum est,  
Dum Immensum, cumque 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;  
Oraculique Vicarius,  
Quod jussit DEUS, Fides praestat Sacerdos,  
Homines seipsos Noscere instituens.  
Lingua Nostra  
Tibi collactanea Tecum crevit,  
Vocesque patrias, et Tuas simùl formasti.  
Nec Indigenam amplius, sed JONSONI jactamus facundiam,  
 inde semper Tibi contingat Tuâ Linguâ Celebrari;  
Qui et Romam  
Disertiores docuisti voces  
Mancipiali Denuò Iocomate superbientem,  
Graeciamque etiam  
Orbis Magistram excoluisti,  
Nunc aliâ quàm Atticâ Mineruâ 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:  
Formaeque rivulos palantes in unum cogens Oceanum,  
Ind exire jussit alteram sine naevo Venerem.  
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: JONSON.  
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. JONSON.  
NEc sic excidimus: pars tantùm vilior audit  
Imperium Libitina tuum, coelestior urget  
Aethereos tractus, mediasque 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, idque severae,  
Quod damus alterius vitae, concedimus Vmbrae.  
Sic Caput Ismarij, caesâ cervice, Poetae,  
Nescio quid rapido vocale immurmurat Hebro,  
Memnonis adverso sic stridit Chordula Phoebo,  
Datque modos magicos, tenuesque 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, densaque 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  
Vlli dexterius favent Poetae,  
Hoc cùm Maeonide sibi et Marone,  
Et cum Callimacho, et simul Tibullo  
Commune est, alijsque cum trecentis:  
Sed quòd Anglia quotquot eruditos  
Foecundo ediderit sinu Poetas  
Acceptos referat sibi, sua omnes  
Hos industria finxerit, labosque  
JONSONI, Hoc proprium est suumque totum,  
Qui Poëmata fecit et Poetas.  R. BRIDEOAKE. A. M. N. C. Oxon.  

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jan. 23. 1637.  
Jmprimatur,  
THO: WYKES, R. P. Episc. Lond: Capell: Domest.  
FINIS.