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Upon the muses' anvil ; turn the same,
(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 such wert thou :-Look, how the father's face
Lives in his issue ; even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly shines
In his well-turned and true-filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandilh'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet swan of Avon, what a light it were,
To see thee in our waters yet appear ;
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James !
But stay,; I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there :--
Shine forth, thou star of poets; and with rage,
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, fince thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night,
And despairs day, but by thy volume's light !

Ben. Jonson.

Upon the Lines, and Life, of the famous scenick Poet,


Those hands, which you so clapt, go now and wring, You Britains brave; for done alle Shakespeare's days ; His days are done, that made the dainty plays,

Which made the globe of heaven and earth to ring:

Dry'd is that vein, dry'd is the Thespian spring, Turn'd all to tears, and Phæbus clouds bis rays;

That corpse, that coffin, now bekick those bays,

Which crown'd him poet first, then poets' king. If tragedies might any prologue have,

All those he made would scarce make one to this;
Where fame, now that he gone is to the grave,

(Death's publick tyring-house) the Nuntius is :
For, though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines fhall never out.


To the Memory of the deceafed Author, Mafter W.

SHAKESPEARË, at length thy pious fellows give
The world thy works; thy works, by which outlive
Thy tomb thy name must: when that stone is rent,
And time diffolves thy Stratford monument,
Here we alive shall view thee ftill; this book,
When brass and marble fail, fall make thee look
Fresh to all ages; when pofterity
Shall loath what's new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare's, every line, each verse,
Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy herse.
Nor fire, nor cank'ring age,mas Naso said
Of his,-thy wit-fraught book shall once invade :
Nor shall I e'er believe or think thee dead,
Though mift, until our bankrout ftage be sped
(Impossible) with some new strain to out-do
Passions of Juliet, and her Romeo ;
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take,
Than when thy half-sword parlying Romans (pake :
Till these, till any of thy volumes reft,
shall with more fire, more feeling be exprefs' a;

Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But, crown'd with laurel, live eternally.


To the Memory of Mafter W. SHAKESPEARE.

We wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou went'l so sooni From the world's stage to the grave's tyring-room : We thought thee dead but this thy printed worth Tells thy spectators, that thou went'st but forth To enter with applause : An actor's art Can die, and live to act a second part; That's but an exit of mortality, This a re-entrance to a plaudite..

F. M.

On worthy Master SHAKESPEARE, and his Poems.

A MIND reflecting ages paft, whose clear
And equal surface can make things appear,
Diftant a thousand years, and reprefent
Them in their lively colours, just extent :
To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Rowl back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confused lie
Great heaps of ruinous mortality:
In that deep dusky dungeon, to discern
A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn
The phyfiognomy, of shades, and give
Them fudden birth, wond'ring how oft they live;
What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and picture without pain,

Senseless and soul-less shews: to give a ftage,
Ample, and true with life,voice, action, age,
As Plato's year, and new scene of the world,
Them unto us, or us to them had hurld:
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their herse,
Make kings his subjects; by exchanging verse 9:17
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage :
Yet so to temper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both smile and weep; fearful at plots so fad,
Then laughing at our fear; abus'd, and glad
To be abuz'd; affected with that truth
Which we perceive is false, pleas'd in that ruth
At which we start, and, by elaborate play,
Tortur'd and tickld; by a crab-like way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly fort
Disgorging up his ravin for our sport :-
-While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne,
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines ; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love ;
To ftrike up and stroak down, both joy and ires
To steer the affections; and by heavenly fire
Mold us anew, stoln from ourselves :

This-and much more, which cannot be express’d
But by himself, his tongue, and his own breast,-
Was Shakespeare's freehold, which his cunning brain
Improv'd, by favour of the nine-fold train ;-
The buskin'd muse, the comick queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio, nimble hand
And nimbler foot of the melodious pair,
The filver-voiced lady, the most fair


Calliope, the whose speaking filence daunts
And the whose praise the heavenly lady chants.

These jointly woo'd him, envying one another ;-
Obey'd by all as (pouse, but lov'd as brother ;-
And wrought a curious robe of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright:
Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted spring i
Each leaf match'd with a flower, and each string
Of golden wire, each line of filk: there run
Italian works, whose thread the fifters {pun;
And there did fing, or seem to fing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice
Here hangs a massy rock ; there plays a fair
Bút 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 muses 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 say, his body ; but his verse shall live,
And more than nature takes, our hands shall give :
In a less volume, but more strongly bound,
Shakespeare shall breathe and speak; with laurel crown'd,
Which never fades; fed with ambrosial meat,
In a well-lined vesture, rich and neat:
So with this robe they cloath him, bid him wear it;
For time fhall never stain, nor envy tear it.
The friendly admirer of his endowments,

J. M. s.

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