And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face
As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? 29 Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes
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 seemed to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron. What could hurt her
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 applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still while thy book doth live And we have wits to read and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses; For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
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 he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 60 Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame, Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made, as well as born.
And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly
In his well turnèd, and true filèd lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. 80
Got up, and thrived with honest arts, He purchased friends, and fame, and honours then, And had his noble name advanced with men;
But weary of that flight,
He stooped in all men's sight
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