188. On Mr. Beaumont.
He that hath such acutenesse, and such wit,
As well may ask six lives to manage it;
He that hath writ so well, that no man dare
Deny it for the best; let him beware:
Beaumont is dead, by whose sole death appears,
Wit's a disease consumes men in few years.
189. On William Shakespeare.
Renowned Spencer lye a thought more nigh
To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumont lye
A little nearer Spencer, to make room
For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb,
To lodge all four in one bed make a shift
Untill Dooms-day, for hardly will a fifth
Betwixt this day and that, by Fates be slain,
For whom your curtains may be drawn again.
If your precedency in death do bar
A fourth place in your sacred Sepulcher;
Under this sacred Marble of thine owne,
Sleep rare Tragoedian Shakespeare! sleep alone.
Thy unmolested peace in an unshared cave,
Possesse as Lord, not Tenant of thy grave,
That unto us, and others it may be,
Honour hereafter to be laid by thee.
190. On Ben: Fohnson.
Here lyes Johnson with the rest
Of the Poets; but the best.
Reader, wo'dst thou more have known?
Ask his story, not this stone;
That will speak what this can't tell
Of his glory. So farewell.
The Muses fairest light, in no dark time;
The wonder of a learned Age; the line
That none can passe; the most proportion'd wit
To Nature: the best Judge of what was fit:
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen:
The voyce most eccho'd by consenting men :
The soul which answer'd best to all well said
By others; and which most requitall made :
Tun'd to the highest key of ancient Rome,
Returning all her musick with her own.
In whom with nature, study claim'd a part,
And yet who to himselfe ow'd all his Art ;
Here lyes Ben: Fohnson, every age will look
With sorrow here, with wonder on his Book.
On Mr. Francis Quarles.
To them that understand themselves so well,
As what, not who lyes here, to ask, I'l tell,
What I conceive, envy dare not deny,
Far both from falshood, and from flattery.
Here drawn to land by death, doth lye
A vessell fitter for the sky,
Then Fasons Argo, though to Greece,
They say, it brought the Golden Fleece.
The skilfull Pilot steer'd it so,
Hither and thither, to and fro,
Through all the Seas of Poetry,
Whether they far or near doe lye,
And fraught it so with all the wealth,
Of wit and learning, not by stealth,
Or Piracy, but purchase got,
That this whole lower world could not
Richer Commodities, or more
Afford to adde unto his store.
To heaven then with an intent
Of new discoveries, he went,
And left his Vessell here to rest
Till his return shall make it blest.
The bill of Lading he that looks
To know, may find it in his Books.
193. He that would write an Epitaph for thee, And do it well, must first begin to be Such as thou wert; for none can truly know Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so. He must have wit to spare, and to hurle down: Enough to keep the Gallants of the Town. He must have learning plenty; both the Laws, Civill, and Common, to judge any Cause; Divinity great store, above the rest; None of the worst edition, but the best;
On Doctor Donnes Death.
He must have language, travail, all the Arts;
Judgement to use; or else he wants thy parts.
He must have friends the highest, able to do;
Such as Macenas and Augustus too;
He must have such a sicknesse, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee,
He must be dead first; let alone for me.
What? is the young Apollo grown of late
Conscious his tender years are nothing fit
To rule the now large Heliconian State,
Without a sage Competitor in it?
And therefore sent death, who might Whaly bring
To be a Guardian to this stripling King;
Sure so it is, but if we thought it might
Be worse then this: namely, that th'Gods for spight To earth, had ta'n him hence; wee'd weep amain, Wee'd weep a Phlegethon, an Ocean;
Which might without the help of Charon's Oares, Ferry his soule to the Elysian shoars.
Were but this Marble vocall, there
Such an Elogium would appear
As might, though truth did dictate, move
Distrust in either faith or love;
As ample knowledge as could rest
Inshrined in a Mortals brest,
Which ne❜rthelesse did open lye,
Uncoverd by humility.
A heart which piety had chose,
To be her Altar, whence arose
Such smoaking sacrifices, that
We here can onely wonder at ;
A honey tongue that could dispence,
Torrents of sacred Eloquence;
That 'tis no wonder if this stone
Because it cannot speak, doth groan ;
For could Mortality assent,
These ashes would prove eloquent.
196. On Sir Walter Rawleigh at his Execution.
Great heart who taught thee so to dye?
Death yielding thee the victory?
Where took'st thou leave of life? if there,
How couldst thou be so freed from feare?
But sure thou dyest and quit'st the state
Of flesh and blood before the fate.
Else what a miracle were wrought,
To triumph both in flesh and thought?
I saw in every stander by,
Pale death, life onely in thine eye :
Th'example that thou left'st was then,
We look for when thou dy'st agen.
Farewell, truth shall thy story say,
We dy'd, thou onely liv'dst that day.
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