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
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 VVho 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 VVhen 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 VVhose 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 VVorld supply VVith 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 VVhere Orpheus Harpe turnes round with Laedas Swan Astrologers demonstrate where you can VVhere 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 VVe want use of a Soule who meerely know VVhat 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 VVhose Glory hath fil'd up the Booke of Fame VVhere 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 VVith 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
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