Selected quad for the lemma: book_n
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B14293
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Ionsonus virbius: or, The memorie of Ben: Iohnson revived by the friends of the Muses
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Duppa, Brian, 1588-1662.
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1638
(1638)
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STC 14784; ESTC S107894
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29,237
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91
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IONSONVS VIRBIVS OR THE MEMORIE OF BEN JOHNSON REVIVED BY THE FRIENDS OF THE MVSES NOLI ALTVM SAPERE LONDON Printed by E. P. for Henry Seile and are to be sold at his shop at the Tygers Head in Fleetstreet over-against Saint Dunstans Church 1638. THE PRINTER TO THE READER ' T Is now about sixe moneths since the most learned and judicious Poet B. IOHNSON became a subject for these Elegies The time interjected betweene his death and the publishing of these shewes that so great an Argument ought to be consider'd before handled not that the Gentlemens affections were lesse readie to grieve but their judgements to write At length the loose Papers were consign'd to the hands of a Gentleman who truly honor'd 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 posteritie Farewell An Eglogue on the Death of BEN IOHNSON betweene Melybaeus and Hylas MELYBEVS HYlas the cleare day boasts a glorious Sunne Our Troope is ready and our time is come That Fox who hath so long our Lambs destroi'd And daily in his prosperous rapine joy'd Is earth'd not farre from hence old Aegons sonne 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 wee staid The Prey-devourer had our prey bin made Hyl. Oh! Melibaeus now I list not hunt Nor have that vigor as before I wont My presence will afford them no reliefe That Beast I strive to chase is only griefe Mel. What meane thy folded Armes thy downe-cast eyes Teares which so fast descend and sighs which rise What meane thy words which so distracted fall As all Thy Loyes had now one funerall Cause for such griefe can out retirements yeeld That followes Courts but stoopes not to the field Hath thy sterne step-dame to thy sire reveal'd Some youthful act which thou couldst wish conceal'd Part of thy Heard hath some close thiefe convey'd From open pastures to a darker shade Part of thy flocke hath some fierce Torrent drown'd Thy harvest fail'd or Amarillis frown'd Hyl. Nor Love nor Anger Accident nor Thiefe Hath rais'd the waves of my unbounded griefe To cure this cause I would provoke the ire Of my fierce Step-dame or severer Sire Give all my Heards Fields Flocks and all the grace That ever shone in Amarillis Face Alas that Bard that glorious Bard is dead Who when I whilome Cities visited Hath made them seeme but houres which were full dayes Whilst he vouchsaft me his harmonious layes And when He liv'd I thought the countrey th en A torture and no Mansion but a Den. Mel. JOHNSON you meane unlesse I much doe erre I know the Person by the Character Hyl. You guesse aright it is too truely so From no lesse spring could all these Rivers flow Mel. Ah Hylas then thy griefe I cannot call A passion when the ground is rationall I now excuse thy teares and sighs though those To deluges and these to tempests rose Her great instructer gone I know the Age No lesse laments then doth the widdow'd stage And onely Vice and Folly now are glad Our Gods are troubled and our Prince is sad He chiefly who bestowes light health and art Feeles this sharpe griefe pierce his immortall heart He his neglected Lire away hath throwne And wept a larger nobler Helicon To finde his Hearbs which to his wish prevaile For the lesse lov'd should his owne favorite faile So moan'd himselfe when Daphne he ador'd That arts relieving al should faile 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 townes At last the honour of our Woods and Downes Had often heard his Songs was often fir'd With their inchanting power ere he retir'd And ere himselfe 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 Musicke to his soule had showne Or in all meetings to divert the streame Of our discourse and make his Friend his Theame And praising works which that rare Loome hath weav'd Impart that pleasure which he had receav'd So in sweet notes which did all tunes excell But what he prais'd I oft have heard him tell Of His rare Pen what was the use and price The Bayes of Vertue and the scourge of Vice How the rich ignorant he valued least Nor for the trappings would esteeme the beast But did our youth to noble actions raise Hoping the meed of his immortall praise How bright and soone His Muses morning shone Her Noone how lasting and her Evening none How speech exceeds not dumbenesse nor verse prose More then His verse the low rough rimes of those For such his seene they seem'd who highest rear'd Possest Parnassus ere his power appear'd Nor shall another Pen his fame dissolve Till we this doubtfull Probleme can resolve Which in his workes we most transcendent see Wit Iudgement Learning Art or Industry Which Till is Never so all jointly flow And each doth to an equall Torrent grow His Learning such no Author old nor new Escapt his reading that deserv'd his view And such his Iudgement so exact his Test Of what was best in Bookes as what bookes best That had he joyn'd those notes his Labours tooke From each most prais'd and praise-deserving Booke And could the world of that choise 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 farre exceed his Notes So in his workes where ought inferred growes The noblest of the Plants engrafted showes That his adopted Children equall not The generous Issue his owne Braine 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 admir'd his Wit The Hees and Shee s the Boxes and the Pit And who lesse lik't within did rather chuse To taxe their Iudgements then suspect his Muse How no spectator his chaste stage could call The cause of any crime of his but all With thoughts and wils purg'd and amended rise From th' Ethicke Lectures of his Comedies Where the Spectators act and the sham'd age Blusheth to meet her follies on the stage Where each man finds some Light he never sought And leaves behind some vanitie he brought Whose Politicks no lesse the minds direct Then these the manners nor with lesse effect When his Majesticke Tragedies relate All the disorders of a Tottering state All the distempers which on Kingdomes fall When ease and wealth and vice are generall And yet the minds against all feare assure And telling the disease prescribe the Cure Where as he tels what
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 VVere 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 VVall. 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 VVith 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 VVhile 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 VVho 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 VVe 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 VVhether 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