Ionsonus virbius: or, The memorie of Ben: Iohnson revived by the friends of the Muses

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

TO THE MEMORY OF him who can never be forgotten , Master BENIAMIN JOHNSON . HAd this bin for some meaner Poets Hearse , I might have then observ'd the lawes of verse : But here they faile , nor can I hope t' expresse In Numbers , what the world grants Numberlesse ; Such are the Truths , we ought to speake of Thee , Thou great refiner of our Poesie , Who turn'st to gold that which before was lead ; Then with that pure Elixar rais'd the dead . Nine Sisters who ( for all the Poets lyes ) Had bin deem'd Mortall , did not JOHNSON rise And with celestiall Sparkes ( not stolne ) revive Those who could erst keep winged Fame alive : T' was he that found ( plac't ) in the seat of wit , Dull grinning Ignorance , and banish't it ; He on the prostituted Stage appeares To make men heare , not by their eyes , but eares ; Who painted Vertues , that each one might know , And point the man , that did such Treasure owe : So that who could in JOHNSONS lines be high Needed not Honours , or a Ribbon buy : But vice he onely shew'd us in a glasse , Which by reflection of those rayes that passe , Retaines the figure lively , set before , And that withdrawne , reflects at us no more ; So , he observ'd the like Decorum , when He whipt the vices , and yet spar'd the men ; When heretofore , the vices onely note , And signe from vertue as his party-coate , When Devils were the last Men on the Stage , And pray'd for plenty , and the present Age ; Nor was our English language , onely bound To thanke him , for he Latin Horace found ( Who so inspir'd Rome , with his Lyricke song ) Translated in the Macaronicke toung , Cloth'd in such raggs , as one might safely vow , That his Maecenas , would not owne him now ; On him he tooke this pitty , as to cloth In words , and such expression , as for both , Ther 's none but judgeth the exchange will come To twenty more , then when he sold at Rome . Since then , he made our Language pure and good , And teach us speake , but what we understood , We owe this praise to him , that should we joyne To pay him , he were payd but with the coyne Himselfe hath minted , which we know by this That no words passe for currant now , but his ; And though He in a blinder age could change Faults to perfections , yet 't was farre more strange To see ( how ever times , and fashions frame ) His wit and language still remaine the same In all mens mouths ; Grave Preachers did it use As golden Pills , by which they might infuse Their Heavenly Physicke ; Ministers of State Their grave dispatches in his language wrate ; Ladies made cur'tsies in them , Courtiers , legs , Physicians Bills , perhaps some Pedant begs He may not use it , for he heares 't is such , As in few words , a man may utter much Could I have spoken in his language too , I had not said so much , as now I doe , To whose cleare memory , I this tribute send Who Dead 's my wonder , Living was my Friend . IOHN BEAUMONT , Baronet .

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

Vpon BEN. IOHNSON . I See that Wreath which doth the wearer arme Gainst the quick stroakes of Thunder is no charme To keepe off deaths pale dart : For ( IOHNSON ) then Thou hadst beene number'd still with living men : Times Sythe had feard thy Lawrell to invade , Nor thee this Subject of our sorrow made . Amongst those many Votaries that come To offer up their Garlands at thy Tombe , Whilst some more lofty Pens in their bright Verse , ( Like glorious Tapers flaming on thy Herse ) Shall light the dull and thanklesse World to see , How great a maime it suffers , ( wanting thee ; ) Let not thy learned shadow scorne , that I Pay meaner Rites unto thy Memory : And since I nought can adde but in desire , Restore some sparks which leapt from thine owne fire . What ends soever other Quils invite , I can protest , it was no itch to write , Nor any vaine ambition to be read , But meerely love and justice to the dead , Which rais'd my famelesse Muse ; and caus'd her bring These drops , as tribute throwne into that Spring , To whose most rich and fruitfull head we owe The purest streames of language which can flow . For 't is but truth ; Thou taughtst the ruder Age , To speake by Grammer ; and reformd'st the Stage : Thy Comick ock induc'd such purged sense , A Lucrece might have heard without offence . Amongst those soaring Wits that did dilate Our English , and advance it to the rate And value it now holds , thy selfe was one Helpt lift it up to such proportion , That thus refin'd and roab'd it shall not spare With the full Greeke or Latine to compare . For what Tongue ever durst , but Ours , translate Great Tullies Eloquence , or Homers State ? Both which in their unblemisht lustre shine , From Chapmans Pen , and from thy CATILINE . All I would aske for thee , in recompence Of thy successfull toyle , and times expence Is onely this poore boone : That those who can Perhaps read French , or talke Italian , Or doe the lofty Spaniard affect , ( To shew their skill in forreigne dialect ) Prove not themselves so unnat'rally wise They therefore should their Mother-tongue despise : ( As if her Poets both for stile and witt , Not equal'd , or not pass'd their best that writt ) Vntill by studying IOHNSON they have knowne The heighth , and strength , and plentie of their owne . Thus in what low earth , or neglected roome , So ere thou sleepst , thy BOOKE shall be thy Tombe , Thou wilt goe downe a happie Coarse , bestrew'd With thine owne Flowres and feele thy selfe renew'd , Whilst thy immortall , never with'ring Bayes Shall yearely flourish in thy Readers praise . And when more spreading Titles are forgot , Or , spight of all their Lead and Seare-cloth , rot ; Thou wrapt and shrin'd in thine owne sheets wilt lye A Relique fam'd by all Posteritie . HEN. KING .

MIght but this slender offering of mine , Croud midst the sacred burden of thy shrine , The neere acquaintance with thy greater name Might stile me Wit , and privilege my Fame , But I 've no such ambition , nor dare sue For the least Legacy of Wit , as due , I come not t' offend duty , and transgresse Affection , nor with bold presumption presse , Midst those close mourners , whose nigh kin in verse , Hath made the nere attendance of Thy herse , I come in duty , not in pride , to show Not what I have in store , but what I owe . Nor shall My folly wrong Thy Fame , for we Prize by the want of Wit , the losse of Thee . As when the wearied Sunne hath stolne to rest , And darknesse made the worlds unwelcome guest , We groveling captives of the night , yet may With fire and candle beget light , not day : Now He whose name in Poetry controules , Goes to converse with more refined Soules , Like countrey Gazers in amaze we sit , Admirers of this great Eclipse in Wit , Reason and Wit We have to shew us Men , But no hereditary beame of Ben , Our knock't inventions may beget a sparke , Which faints at th' least resistance of the darke , Thine like the Fires high element was pure , And like the same made not to burne , but cure , When thy enraged Muse did chide o' th stage , 'T was to reforme , not to abuse the Age , But th' art requited ill , to have thy herse , Stain'd by prophaner Parricides in verse ; Who make mortality , a guilt , and scould , Meerely because Thou 'dst offer to be old , 'T was too unkinde a slighting of Thy name , To thinke a ballad could confute Thy Fame , Let 's but peruse their Libels , and they 'le be , But arguments they understood not thee , Nor I' st disgrace , that in Thee through age spent , 'T was thought a crime not to be excellent : For Me , I le in such reverence hold thy Fame , I le but by Invocation use Thy Name , Be thou propitious , Poetry shall know , No Deity but Thee to whom I 'le owe . HEN. COVENTRY .

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

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

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

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

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

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

AN OFFERTORY AT THE TOMBE OF THE FAMOVS POET BEN : IOHNSON . IF Soules departed lately hence doe know How we performe the duties that we owe Their Reliques ? will it not grieve thy spirit To see our dull devotion ? thy merit Prophan'd by disproportiond Rites ? thy Herse Rudely defil'd with Our unpolish'd Verse ? Necessitie's our best excuse ; 't is in Our understanding , not our will wee sin ; 'Gainst which 't is now in vaine to labour , wee Did nothing know , but what was taught by Thee , The routed Souldiers when their Captaines fall Forget all order , that men cannot call It properly a Battaile that they fight ; Nor wee ( Thou being dead ) be said to write . 'T is noise wee utter , nothing can be sung By those distinctly that have lost their Tongue ; And therefore whatsoere the Subject be , All Verses now become thy ELEGIE : For , when a livelesse Poeme shall bee read , Th' afflicted Reader sighs , BEN : IONSON'S dead . This is thy Glory , that no Pen can raise A lasting Trophee in thy honour'd praise ; Since Fate ( it seemes ) would have it so exprest , Each Muse should end with Thine , who was the best : And but her flights were stronger and so high , That Times rude hand cannot reach her glory , An ignorance had spred this Age as great As that which made thy learned MUSE so sweat , And toyle to dissipate ; untill ( at length ) Purg'd by thy Art , it gain'd a lasting strength ; And now secur'd by thy all-powerfull Writt , Can feare no more a like relapse of Witt : Though ( to Our griefe ) we ever must despaire , That any Age can raise Thee up an Heyre . IOHN VERNON . è societ : In : Temp.

THe Muses fairest light in no darke time , The Wonder of a learned Age ; the Line Which none can passe ; the most proportion'd Witt , To Nature , the best Judge of what was fit ; The deepest , plainest , highest , cleerest PEN ; The Voice most eccho'd by consenting Men , The Soule which answer'd best to all well said By others , and which most requitall made , Tun'd to the highest Key of ancient ROME , Returning all her Musique with his owne , In whom with Nature , Studie claim'd a part , And yet who to himselfe ow'd all his Art : Heere lies BEN : IOHNSON , every Age will looke With sorrow heere , with wonder on his BOOKE .

WHo first reform'd our Stage with justest Lawes , And was the first best Judge in your owne Cause ? Who ( when his Actors trembled for Applause ) Could ( with a noble Confidence ) preferre His owne , by right , to a whole Theater ; From Principles which he knew could not erre . Who to his FABLE did his Persons fitt , With all the Properties of Art and Witt , And above all ( that could bee Acted ) writt . Who publique Follies did to covert drive , Which hee againe could cunningly retrive , Leaving them no ground to rest on , and thrive . Heere IONSON lies , whom had I nam'd before In that one word alone , I had paid more Then can be now , when plentie makes me poore . I. Cl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUr Bayes ( me thinks ) are withered , and they looke As if ( though thunder-free ) with envy , strooke ; While the triumphant Cipresse boast to be Design'd , as fitter for thy companie . Where shall we now find one dares boldly write , Free from base flattery yet as void of spight ? That grovels not in 's Satyres , but soares high , Strikes at the mounting vices , can descry With his quicke Eagles Pen those glorious crimes , That either dazle , or affright the Times ? Thy strength of Iudgement oft did thwart the tide O' th' foaming multitude , when to their side Throng'd plush , and silken censures , whilst it chose , ( As that which could distinguish Men from cloathes , Faction from judgement ) still to keepe thy Ba●es From the suspition of a vulgar praise . But why wrong I thy memory whilst I strive , In such a Verse as mine to keep 't alive ? Well wee may toyle , and shew our wits the racke ; Torture our needy fancies , yet still lacke Worthy Expressions Thy great losse to moane , Being none can fully praise thee but thy owne . R. MEADE .

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

En Ionsonus noster Lyricorum Drammaticorumque Coriphaeus Qui Pallide auspice Lauruma Grecia ipsaque Roma rapuit . Et Fausto omnine In Britannian transtulit nostram Nunc In vidia major Fato , non Aemulus cessit Anno Dom. MCIXXVII . Id Nonar . FR : WORTLEY , Baronet .

In obitum BEN : IONSONI Poetarum facile Principis . IN quae proijcior discrimina ? quale trementem Traxit in officium piet as temeraria Musam ? Me miserum ; incusso pertentor frigore , & umbrâ Territus ingenti videor pars Funeris ipse Quod celebro ; famae concepta mole fatisco , Exiquumque strues restringuit praegravis ignem . Non tamen absistam , nam si spes tolibus ausis Excidat , extabo laudum JOHNSONE tuarum Vberior testis : totidem quos secula norunt , Solus tu dignus , cuius praeconia spiret , Deliquium Musarum , & victi facta Poetae . Quis nescit , Romane tuos , in utrâque triumphos Militiâ , Laurique decus mox sceptra secutum : Virgilius quoque Caesar erat , nec ferre priorem Noverat : Augustum fato dilatus in aevum , Vt 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 , sequutus Contexit sua fila , suique est Nominis Author . T. TERRENT .

VATVM PRINCIPI , BEN. JONSONO Sacrum . Poetarum Maxime ! Sive Tu mortem , sive Ecstasin passus , Jaces verendum et plus quam Hominis funus . Sic post receptam sacri furoris Gloriam , ●●m exhaustum jam Numen Decoxit emerita Vates Jugique fluxu non reditura se prodegit Anima , Jacuit Sibyllae cadaver , Vel trepidis adhuc cultoribus consulendum . Nulli se longius indulsit DEVS , nulli aegrius valedixit ; Pares testatus flammas , Dum Exul , ac dum Incola . 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 Iudicium 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 , Vt 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 Iudicantis , Aut Vaticinantis . Virtutis enim illud et vatis est , sibi placere , Proinde non Invidiâ tantum nostrâ , sed Laude Tuâ Magnum Te prodire jusserunt fata . Qui Integrum Nobis Poetam solus exhibuisti , 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 vtrinque 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 , Novâque Lucinae 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 DEVS , 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 , Vt 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 Minervâ Eloquentem . Te solo Dives poteras Aliorum Ingenia contemnere , Et vel sine Illis evasisses Ingenij compendium : Sed ut ille Pictor , Mundo daturus par Ideae Exemplar , Quas hinc et inde Pulchritudines Sparserat Natura , Collegit Artifex : Formaeque rivulos palantes in unum cogens Oceanum , Inde 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 : IONSON . ADsta hospes : pretium morae est , sub isto Quid sit , discere , conditum Sepulchro . Socci deliciae ; decus Cothurni ; Scenae pompa ; cor & caput Theatri ; Linguarum sacer helluo ; perennis Defluxus venerum ; scatebra salsi Currens lene joci , sed innocentis ; Artis perspicuum jubar ; coruscum Sydus ; judicij pumex , profundus Doctrinae puteus , tamen serenus ; Scriptorum genius ; Poeticus Dux , Quantum O sub rigido latet lapillo ! WILLIAM BEW . N. Coll. Oxon. soc .

In Obitum BEN. IONSON . NEc sic excidimus : pars tantùm vilior audit Imperium Libitina tuum , coelestior urget Aethereos tractus , 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 IONSONI , Hoc proprium est suumque totum , Qui Poëmata fecit et Poetas . R. BRIDEOAKE . A. M. N. C. Oxon.

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