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Upon the Lines, and Life, of the famous Scenick Poet, Mafter WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Those bands, which you so clapt, go now and wring, You Britains brave; for done are Shakespeare's days; His days are done, that made the dainty plays,

Which made the globe of heaven and earth to ring :

Dry'd is that vein, dry'd is the Thespian spring, Turn'd all to tears, and Pbæbus clouds his rays ; That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays,

Which crown'd bim poet first, then poets' king. If tragedies might any prologue bave,

All those be made would scarce make one to this; Wbere fame, now that he gone is to the

is to the grave, (Death's publick tyring-house) the Nuntius is : For, though his line of life went soon about, The life yet of bis lines shall never out.

Hugh HOLLAND.

To the Memory of the deceased Author, Mafter W. SHAKESP E A R E.

Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give
a be world thy works ; tby works, by which outlive
Thy tomb, thy name must : when that stone is rent,
And time dissolves iby Stratford monument,
Here we alive shall view thee ftill; this book,
Wben brass and marble fade, hall make thee look
Fresh to all ages ; when posterity
Shall loath what's new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare's, every line, each verse,
Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy herje,
Nor fire, nor cank’ring ageas Naso said
Of bis,—thy wit-fraught book Mall once invade :
Nor shall I e'er believe or think thee dead,
Thougò mift, until our bankrout stage be fred

(N 4]

( Impoffille)

( Imposible) with some new strain to out-do
Pasions of Juliet, and ber Romeo ;
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take,
Than when thy balf-sword parlying Romans spake :
Till these, till any of thy volume's rejt,
Shall with more fire more feeling be express’d,
Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But, crown'd with laurel, live eternally.

L. Digges.

To the Memory of Master W. SHAKESPEARE.

We wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou went'ft fo foon From the world's stage to the grave's tyring-room : We thought thee dead; but this thy printed wortb Tel's thy Speilators, that thou went'st but forth To enter with applause : an aftor's art Can die, and live to act a second part; That's but an exit of mortality, This a re-entrance to a plaudite.

J. M.

On worthy Master SHAKESPEARE,

and his Poems.

A mind refleEling ages past, whose clear
And equal surface can make things appear,
Di;tant a tic:tfand years, and represent
Them in their lively colours, just extent :
To currun hosty time, retrieve the fates,
Rowl back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confused lie
Great beaps of ruinous mortality :
In that deep dusky dungeon, to discern
A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn
The phyfiogno ny of Mades, and give
Thein sudden birth, wond’ring how oft they live ;

What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and piElure without brain,
Senieless and soul-less Shews : to give a stage,
Ample, and true with life, -voice, cElion, age,
As Plato's year, arid new scene of the world,
Tbem unto us, or us to them bad burl'd:
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their herse,
Make kings bis subjects; by exchanging verse
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Foys in their joy, and trembles at their rage :
Yet fo to temper pasion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both smile and weep; fearful at plots so sad,
Then laughing at our fear ; abus’d, and glad
To be abus'd; affected with that trutb
Which we perceive is false, pleas'd in that ruth
At which we start, and, by elaborate play,
Tortur'd and tickľd; by a crab-like way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly fort
Disgorging up his ravin for our sport :-
-While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne,
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines ; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love ;
To strike up and stroak down, both joy and ire ;
To steer the affećtions; and by heavenly fire
Mold us anew, stoln from ourselves :-

This, and much more, which cannot be expressid
But by himself, bis tongue, and his own breast,-
Was Shakespeare's freehold; which his cunning brain
Improv'd by favour of the nine-fold train ;-
The buskin'd muje, the comick queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio, nimble band
And nimbler foot of the melodious pair,
The silver-voiced lady, the most fair
Calliope, whose Speaking silence daunts,
And she whose praise the heavenly body chants.

Theja

These jointly woo'd him, envying one another ;-
Obey'd by all as spezife, but lov'd as brother ;-
And wrought a curious robe, of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly rulet, and the scarlet bright :
Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted Spring ;
Each leaf metch'd with a flower, and each string
Of golden wire, each line of silk : there run
Italian works, whose thread the fifters Spun ;
And there did fing, or seem to sing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice :
Here hangs a moly rock; there plays a fair
But chiding fountain, purled: not the air,
Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn ;
Not cut of cominon tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials, wbich the muses know,
And only know the countries where they grow.

Now, when they could no longer bim enjoy,
In mortal garments pent,--death may destroy,
They say, his body; but his verse swall live,
And more than ncture takes our bends shall give :
In a less volume, but more strongly bound,
Shakespeare Mall breathe and speak; with laurel crown'd,
Which never fades ; fed with ambrosial meat ;
In a well-lined vesture, rich, and neat :
So with this robe they cloath him, bid bim wear it;
For time shall never stain, nor envy teor it.

The friendly Admirer of his Endowments,

J. M. S.

AD

An Epitaph on the
admirable dramatick Poet, W. SHAKESPEARE.

Wbat needs, my Shakespeare, for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in piled ftones ;
Or that bis hallow'd reliques Mould be bid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear for of memory, great beir of fame,
What needst thou such weak witness of thy name?
Tbcu, in our wonder and astonishmeni,
Haft built thyself a live-long monument :
For wbilst, to the shame of now-endeavouring art,
Tby eafy numbers flow; and that each beart
Hatb, from the leaves of thy unvalu'd book,
Tbose Delphick lines with deep impresion took ;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ;
And, lo sepulcberd, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.

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