If tragedies might any prologue have,
All thofe he made would scarce make one to this;
Where fame, now that he gone is to the grave,
(Death's publick tyring-houfe) the Nuntius is:
For, though his line of life went foon about,
The life yet of his lines fhall never out.
the deceafed Author, Mafter W. SHAKESPEARE.
Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give The world thy works; thy works, by which outlive
Upon Ben Jonson, and his Zany, Tom Randolph. "Quoth Ben to Tom, the Lover's stole,
"Tis Shakespeare's every word;
"Indeed, fays Tom, upon the whole,
""Tis much too good for Ford.
"Thus Ben and Tom the dead still praise,
"The living to decry;
"For none muft dare to wear the bays,
"Till Ben and Tom both die.
"Even Avon's fwan could not escape
"Thefe letter-tyrant elves;
"They on his fame contriv'd a rape,
"To raise their pedant felves.
"But after times with full confent
"This truth will all acknowledge,
"Shakespeare and Ford from heaven were fent,
"But Ben and Tom from college.
Mr. Macklin the comedian was the author of this letter; but the pamphlet which furnished his materials, was loft in its paffage from Ireland.
The following stanza, from a copy of verfes by Shirley, prefixed to Ford's Love's Sacrifice, 1633, alludes to the fame difpute, and is apparently addrefied to Ben Jonfon.
"Look here thou that haft malice to the stage,
"And impudence enough for the whole age;
"Voluminoully ignorant! be vext
"To read this tragedy, and thy owne be next."
• See Wood's Athenæ Oxon. edit. 1721, vol. I. p. 583.
Thy tomb, thy name muft: when that stone is rent,
And time diffolves thy Stratford monument,
Here we alive fhall view thee ftill; this book,
When brass and marble fade, fhall make thee look
Fresh to all ages; when pofterity
Shall loath what's new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare's, every line, each verfe,
Here fhall revive, redeem thee from thy herfe.
Nor fire, nor cank'ring age-as Nafo faid
Of his, thy wit-fraught book fhall once invade:
Nor fhall I e'er believe or think thee dead,
Though mift, until our bankrout ftage be sped
(Impoflible) with fome new ftrain to out-do
Paffions of Juliet, and her Romeo;
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take,
Than when thy half-fword parlying Romans fpake:
Till thefe, till any of thy volume's reft,
Shall with more fire more feeling be exprefs'd,
Be fure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But, crown'd with laurel, live eternally.
To the Memory of Mafter W. SHAKESPEAR E,
We wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou went'ft fo foon
From the world's ftage to the grave's tyring-room:
We thought thee dead; but this thy printed worth
Tells thy fpectators, that thou went'st but forth
To enter with applaufe: an actor's art
Can die, and live to act a fecond part;
That's but an exit of mortality,
This a re-entrance to a plaudite.
On worthy Mafter SHAKESPEARE,
A mind reflecting ages paft, whofe clear
And equal furface can make things appear,
See Wood's Athene Oxonienfes, vol. I. p. 599, and 600,
Distant a thousand years, and reprefent
Them in their lively colours, just extent:
To outrun hafty time, retrieve the fates,
Rowl back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confufed lie
Great heaps of ruinous mortality:
In that deep dufky dungeon, to difcern
A royal ghoft from churls; by art to learn.
The phyfiognomy of fhades, and give
Them fudden birth, wond'ring how oft they live;
What ftory coldly tells, what poets feign
At fecond hand, and picture without brain,
Senfelefs and foul-lefs fhews: To give a ftage,-
Ample, and true with life, - voice, action, age,
As Plato's year, and new scene of the world,
Them unto us, or us to them had hurl'd:
To raife our ancient fovereigns from their herfe,
Make kings his fubjects; by exchanging verfe
Enlive their pale trunks, that the prefent age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage:
Yet fo to temper paffion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both fmile and weep; fearful at plots fo fad,
Then laughing at our fear; abus'd, and glad
To be abus'd; affected with that truth
Which we perceive is falfe, pleas'd in that ruth
At which we ftart, and, by elaborate play,
Tortur'd and tickl'd; by a crab-like way
Time paft made paftime, and in ugly fort
Difgorging up his ravin for our fport:-
-While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne,
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by fecret engines; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love;
To ftrike up and ftroak down, both joy and ire;
To fteer the affections; and by heavenly fire
Mold us anew, ftoln from ourselves:--
This, and much more, which cannot be exprefs'd
But by himfelf, his tongue, and his own breaft,-
Was Shakespear's freehold; which his cunning brain
Improv'd by favour of the nine-fold train;-
The bufkin'd mufe, the comick queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio, nimble hand
And nimbler foot of the melodious pair,
The filver-voiced lady, the most fair
Calliope, whofe speaking filence daunts,
And the whofe praise the heavenly body chants.
Thefe jointly woo'd him, envying one another;-
Obey'd by all as fpoufe, but lov'd as brother;-
And wrought a curious robe, of fable grave,
Fresh green, and pleafant yellow, red moft brave,
And conftant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly ruffet, and the fcarlet bright:
Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted spring;
Each leaf match'd with a flower, and each ftring
Of golden wire, each line of filk: there run
Italian works, whose thread the fifters fpun;
And there did fing, or feem to fing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice:
Here hangs a moffy rock; there plays a fair
But chiding fountain, purled: not the air,
Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn;
Not out of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials, which the mufes know,
And only know the countries where they grow.
Now, when they could no longer him enjoy,
In mortal garments pent,death may deftroy,
They fay, his body; but his verfe shall live,
And more than nature takes our hands fhall give:
In a lefs volume, but more ftrongly bound,
Shakespeare fhall breathe and speak; with laurel crown'd,
Which never fades; fed with ambrofial meat,
In a well-lined vefture, rich, and neat:
So with this robe they cloath him, bid him wear it;
For time fhall never ftain, nor envy tear it.
The friendly Admirer of his Endowments,
Part of Shirley's Prologue to The Sifters.
And if you leave us too, we cannot thrive,
I'll promife neither play nor poet live
'Till ye come back; think what
What audience we have, what company
To hakespeare comes, whofe mirth did once beguile
Dull hours, and bufkin'd, made even forrow fimile:
So lovely were the wounds, that men would say
They could endure the bleeding a whole day.
Extract from Michael Drayton's "Elegy to Henry Reynolds, Efq. of Poets and Poefy."
Shakespear, thou hadft as fimooth a comic vein,
Fitting the fock, and in thy natural brain.
As ftrong conception, and as clear a rage
As any one that traffick'd with the ftage.
To Mafter W. SHAKESPEARE.
Shakespeare, that nimble Mercury thy braine
Lulls many hundred Argus-eyes afleepe,
So fit for all thou fafhioneft thy vaine,
At th' horfe-foot fountaine thou haft drunk full deepe, Vertue's or vice's theme to thee all one is;
Who loves chafte life, there's Lucrece for a teacher:
Who lift read luft, there's Venus and Adonis,
The modell of a moft lafcivious leacher.
Befides, in plaies thy wit winds like Mcander,
When needy new compofers borrow more
Than Terence doth from Plautus or Menander:
But to praise thee aright, I want thy ftore.
Then let thine owne works thine owne worth upraife,
And help t'adorne thee with deferved baies.
Epigram 92, in an ancient collection, entitled Run and a great Cafl, 4to. by Tho. Freeman, 16:4.
admirable dramatick Poct, W. SHAKESPEARE,
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in piled ftones;
Or that his hallow'd reliques thould be hid
Under a ftar-ypointing pyramid?
Dear fon of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'ft thou fuch weak witnefs of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and aftonishment,
Haft built thyfelf a live-long monument:
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