Upon the mufes' anvil; turn the fame, (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame; Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn, For a good poet's made, as well as born: And fuch wert thou :-Look, how the father's face Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly shines In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet fwan of Avon, what a fight it were, To fee thee in our waters yet appear; And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, Shine forth, thou ftar of poets; and with rage, Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage; Upon the Lines, and Life, of the famous fcenick Poet, Mafter WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THOSE hands, which you so clapt, go now and wring, 'That corpfe, that coffin, now beftick those bays, All thofe he made would fcarce make one to this; HUGH HOLLAND To the Memory of the deceafed Author, Mafter W. SHAKESPEARE, at length thy pious fellows give Shall loath what's new, think all is prodigy Or till I hear a fcene more nobly take, Than when thy half-fword parlying Romans fpake Be fure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die, L. DIGGES. To the Memory of Mafter W. SHAKESPEARE. WE Wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou went'st so soon From the world's ftage to the grave's tyring-room: We thought thee dead; but this thy printed worth Tells thy fpectators, that thou went'st but forth To enter with applause: An actor's art Can die, and live to act a fecond part; That's but an exit of mortality, A MIND reflecting ages paft, whose clear Great heaps of ruinous mortality : In that deep dusky dungeon, to difcern A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn Them fudden birth, wond'ring how oft they live; Senfelefs and foul-lefs fhews: to give a stage, Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears -While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne, This, and much more, which cannot be exprefs'd The filver-voiced lady, the most fair Calliope, the whofe speaking filence daunts Thefe jointly woo'd him, envying one another ;Obey'd by all as spouse, but lov'd as brother ;And wrought a curious robe of fable grave, Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave, And conftant blue, rich purple, guiltless white, The lowly ruffet, and the scarlet bright: Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted spring; Each leaf match'd with a flower, and each string Of golden wire, each line of filk: there run Italian works, whofe thread the fifters fpun; And there did fing, or feem to fing, the choice Birds of a foreign note and various voice: Here hangs a maffy rock; there plays a fair But chiding fountain, purled: not the air, Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn, Not out of common tiffany or lawn, But fine materials, which the mufes know, And only know the countries where they grow. Now, when they could no longer him enjoy, In mortal garments pent,-death may destroy, They fay, his body; but his verse shall live, And more than nature takes, our hands shall give: In a lefs volume, but more strongly bound, Shakespeare shall breathe and speak; with laurel crown'd, Which never fades; fed with ambrofial meat, In a well-lined vefture, rich and neat: So with this robe they cloath him, bid him wear it; The friendly admirer of his endowments, J. M. S. |