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 VVith thine owne Flowres and feele thy selfe renew'd VVhilst 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
subtle wayes what friends Seeking their wicked and their wisht for ends Ambitious and luxurious Persons prove Whom vast desires or mighty wants doth move The generall Frame to say and undermine In proud Sejanus and bold Cateline So in his vigilant Prince and Consuls parts He shewes the wiser and the nobler Arts By which a state may be unhurt upheld And all those workes destroy'd which hell would build Who not like those who with small praise had writ Had they not cal'd in Iudgement to their Wit Vs'd not a tutoring hand his to direct But was sole Workeman and sole Architect And sure by what my Friend did daily tell If he but acted his owne part as well As he writ those of others he may boast The happy fields hold not a happier ghost Hyl. Strangers will thinke this strange yet he deare Youth Where most he past beleefe fell short of Truth Say on what more he said this gives reliefe And though it raise my cause it bates my griefe Since Fates decreed him now no longer liv'd I joy to heare him by thy Friend reviv'd Mel. More he would say and better but I spoile His smoother words with my unpolisht stile And having told what pitch his worth attain'd He then would tell us what Reward it gain'd How in an ignorant and learn'd age he swaid Of which the first he found the second made How He when he could know it reapt his Fame And long out-liv'd the envy of his Name To him how daily flockt what reverence gave All that had wit or would be thought to have Or hope to gaine and in so large a store That to his Ashes they can pay no more Except those few who censuring thought not so But aim'd at glory from so great a foe How the wise too did with meere wits agree As Pembroke Portland and grave Aubigny Nor thought the rigidst Senator a shame To contribute to so deserv'd a fame How great Eliza the Retreate of those Who weake and injur'd her protection chose Her Subjects joy the strength of her Allies The feare and wonder of her Enemies With her judicious favours did infuse Courage and strength into his yonger Muse How learned JAMES whose praise no end shall finde But still enjoy a Fame pure like his Mind Who favour'd quiet and the Arts of Peace Which in his Halcion dayes found large encrease Friend to the humblest if deserving Swaine Who was himselfe a part of Phaebus Traine Declar'd great JOHNSON worthiest to receive The Garland which the Muses hands did weave And though his Bounty did sustaine his dayes Gave a more welcome Pension in his praise How mighty Charles amidst that Weighty care In which three Kingdomes as their Blessing share Whom as it tends with ever watchfull eyes That neither Power may force nor Art surprise So bounded by no shore graspes all the Maine And farre as Neptune claimes extends his reigne Found still some Time to heare and to admire The happy sounds of his Harmonious Lire And oft hath left his bright exalted Throne And to his Muses feet combin'd His owne In his Maskes As did his Queene whose Person so disclos'd A brighter Nimph then any Part impos'd When she did joyne by an Harmonious choise Her gracefull Motions to his Powerfull voice How above all the rest was Phaebus fir'd With love of Arts which he himselfe inspir'd Nor oftner by his Light our Sence was chear'd Then he in Person to his sight appear'd Nor did he write a line but to supply With sacred Flame the Radiant God was by Hyl. Though none I ever heard this last rehearse I saw as much when I did see his verse Mel. Since He when living could such Honors have What now will Piety pay to his grave Shall of the rich whose lives were low and vile And scarce deserv'd a Grave much lesse a Pile The monuments possesse an ample Roome And such a Wonder lye without a Tombe Raise thou him one in Verse and There relate His Worth thy griefe and our deplored state His great Perfections our great losse recite And let them meerely weepe who cannot write Hyl. I like thy saying but oppose thy choise So great a Taske as this requires a Voice Which must be heard and listned to by all And Fames owne Trumpet but appeares too small Then for my slender Reede to sound his Name Would more my Folly then his praise proclaime And when you wish my weakenesse sing his Worth You charge a Mouse to bring a Mountaine forth I am by Nature form'd by Woes made Dull My Head is emptier then my Heart is full Griefe doth my Braine impaire as Teares supply Which makes my face so moist my Pen so dry Nor should this Work proceed from Woods and Downes But from the Academies Courts and Townes Let Digby Carew Killigrew and Maine Godolphin Waller that inspired Traine Or whose rare Pen beside deserves the grace Or of an equall or a neighbouring Place Answer thy wish for none so fit appeares To raise his Tombe as who are left his Heires Yet for this Cause no labour need be spent Writing his Workes he built his Monument Mel. If to obey in this thy Pen be loth It will not seeme thy weaknesse but thy sloth Our Townes prest by our Foes invading Might Our ancient Druids and young Virgins fight Employing feeble Limbes to the best use So JOHNSON dead no Pen should plead excuse For Elegies howle all who cannot sing For Tombes bring Turfe who cannot Marble bring Let all their forces mix joyne Verse to Rime To save his Fame from that Invader Time Whose Power though his alone may well restraine Yet to so wisht an end no Care is vaine And Time like what our Brookes act in our sight Oft sinkes the neightie and upholds the Light Besides to this thy paines I strive to move Lesse to expresse his glory then thy Love Not long before his Death our woods he meant To visit and descend from Thames to Trent Meete with thy Elegy his Pastorall And rise as much as he vouchsaft to fall Suppose it chance no other Pen doe joine In this Attempt and the whole worke be thine When the fierce fire the rash-Boy kindled raign'd The whole world suffer'd Earth alone complain'd Suppose that many more intend the same More taught by Art and better knowne to Fame To that great Deluge which so farre destroid The Earth her Springs as Heaven his Showrs emploid So may who highest Markes of Honour weares Admit meane Partners in this Flood of Teares So oft the Humblest joine with Loftiest Things Nor onely Princes weep the fate of Kings Hyl. I yeeld I yeeld Thy words my thoughts have fir'd And I am lesse perswaded then inspir'd Speech shall give Sorrow vent and that Releefe The Woods shall eccho all the Citties griefe I oft have verse on meaner Subjects made Should I give Presents and leave Debts unpaid Want of Invention here is no excuse My matter I shall find and not
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 gracâ—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