Baptifms, Marriages, and Burials of the Shakefpeare family; tranfcribed from the Register-book of the Parish of Stratford upon Avon, Warwickfhire,

ONE, daughter of John Shakspere, was baptized Sept. 15, 1558.

'JONE

Margaret, daughter of John Shakfpere, was buried April 30, 1563.

* WILLIAM, fon of John Shakfpere, was baptized April 26, 1564.

Gilbert, fon of John Shakfpere, was baptized Oct. 13, 1566. $ Jone, daughter of John Shakfpere, was baptized Apr. 15, 1569. Anne, daughter of Mr. John Shakspere, was baptized Sept. 28, 1571.

Richard, fon of Mr. John Shakfpere, was baptized March 11, 1573

Anne, daughter of Mr. John Shakspere, was buried April 4, 1579. Edmund, fon of Mr. John Shakfpere, was baptized May 3, 1580. Elizabeth, daughter of Anthony Shakfpere, of Hampton, was baptized Feb. 10, 1583.

Sufanna, daughter of WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, was baptized May 26, 1583.

Samuel and Judith, fon and daughter of WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, were baptized Feb. 2, 1584.

John Shakspere and Margery Roberts were married Nov. 25, 1584.

Margery, wife of John Shakspere, was buried Oct. 29, 1587. Urfula, daughter of John Shakspere, was baptized March 11, 1588.

Thomas Greene, alias Shakfpere, was buried March 6, 1589.

+ With this extract from the register of Stratford, I was favoured by the Hon. James Weft, efq. STEEVENS.

She married the ancestor of the Harts of Stratford.
Born April 23, 1564.

This feems to be a grandaughter of the first John.
This Samuel, only fon of the poet, died aged 12.

Humphrey,

Baptifms, Marriages, Burials, &c.

Humphrey, fon of John Shakfpere, was baptized May 24, 1590. Philip, fon of John Shakfpere, was baptized Sept. 21, 1591. Samuel, fon of WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, was buried Aug. 11, 1596.

Mr. John Shakspere was buried Sept. 8, 1601.

John Hall, gent. and Sufanna Shakspere were married June 5, 1607.

Mary Shakfpere, widow, was buried Sept. 9, 1608.

Gilbert Shakfpere, adolefcens, was buried Feb. 3, 1611.
Richard Shakfpere was buried Feb. 4, 1612.

Thomas Queeny and 5 Judith Shakspere were married Feb. 10, 1616.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, gentleman, was buried April 25, 1616.

Mrs. Shakspere was buried Aug. 6, 1623.

This gentleman was a phyfician: he married the poet's eldest daughter. 5 Judith was the poet's youngest daughter.

As Shakespeare the poet married his wife from Shottery, á village near Stratford, poffibly he might become poffeffor of a remarkable boufe there, as part of her portion; and jointly with his wife convey it as part of their daughter Judith's portion to Thomas Queeny. It is certain that one Queeny, an elderly gentleman, fold it to Harvey, efq; of Stockton, near Southam, Warwickshire, father of John Harvey Thurfby, efq; of Abington, near Northampton; and that the aforefaid Harvey fold it again to Samuel Tyler, efq; whofe fifters, as his heirs, now enjoy it."

Died the 23d.
The poet's widow,

Upon the Effigies of my worthy Friend, the Author Mafter WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

and his Works.

Spectator, this life's fhadow is ; — to fee
The truer image, and a livelier he,
Turn reader: but obferve his comick vein,
Laugh, and proceed next to a tragick strain,
Then weep: fo,-when thou find'st two contraries,
Two different paffions, from thy rapt foul rife,-
Say, (who alone effect fuch wonders could)
Rare Shakespeare to the life thou deft behold.

To the Reader.

This figure, that thou here fee'ft put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;
Wherein the graver had a frife
With nature, to out-do the life:
O, could be but have drawn his wit
As well in brafs, as he bath hit.
His face; the print would then furpafs
All, that was ever writ in brafs:
But, fince he cannot, reader, look
Not on his piliure, but his book,

To the Memory of my Beloved,

B. J.

the Author Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, and what he hath left us.

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame,
While I confefs thy writings to be fuck,
As neither man, nor mufe, can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's fuffrage. but these ways
Vere not the paths I meant unto thy praife:

For

For feelieft ignorance on thefe may light,
Which, when it founds at beft, but echoes rights
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it feem'd to raife:
Thefe are as fome infamous bawd, or whore,
Should praife a matron; what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them; and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need:
I, therefore, will begin :-Soul of the age,
The applaufe, delight, the wonder of our stage,
My Shakespeare, rife! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spencer; or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument, without a tomb;
And art alive ftill, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praife to give.
That I not mix thee fo, my brain excuses;
I mean, with great but difproportion'd muses :
For, if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee furely with thy peers;
And tell-bow far thou didst our Lilly outfbine,
Or Sporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadst fmall Latin, and lefs Greek,-
From thence to honour thee, I would not feek
For names; but call forth thundring Efchylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead;
To live again, to bear thy bufkin tread
And bake a ftage: or, when thy focks were on,
Leave thee alone; for the comparifon

Of all, that infolent Greece, cr haughty Rome,
Sent forth, or fince did from their afbes come.
Triumph, my Britain! theu baft one to show,
To whom all fcenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time;
And all the mufes ftill were in their prime,

[N 3]

Wen

;

When like Apollo he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm.
Nature bérfelf was proud of his defigns,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines
Which were fo richly spun, and woven fo fit,
As, fince, he will vouchfafe no other wit:
The merry Greek, tart Ariftophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deferted lic,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part:·
For, though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion: and that be,
Who cafts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and ftrike a second beat
Upon the Mufes' anvil; turn the fame,
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame;
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a fcorn,-
For a good poet's made, as well as born:
And fuch wert thou: Look, how the father's face
Lives in bis iffue; even fo the race

Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly fines
In bis well-torned and true-filed lines;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
s brandifl'd at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet fwan of Avon, what a fight it were,-
To fee thee in our waters yet appear;

And make thofe flights upon the banks of Thames,
That fo did take Eliza, and our James!
But fray; I fee thee in the hemifphere
Advanc'd, and made a conftellation there :-
Shine forth, thou star of poets; and with

rage,

Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping stage;
Which, fince thy flight from hence, bath mourn'd like night,
And defpairs day, but by thy volume's light!

BEN JONSON.

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