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And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I will not seek
For names but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage or when thy socks were on,
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
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 shines
In his well torned, and true filed lines;

in each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water 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 mourn'd like
night,

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD
OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL.

WEEP with me, all you that read
This little story:

And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,

As heaven and nature seem'd to strive
Which own'd the creature.

Years he number'd scarce thirteen

When fates turn'd cruel,

Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;

And did act, what now we moan,
Old men so duly,

As, sooth, the Parce thought him one,
He play'd so truly.

So, by error to his fate

They all consented;

But viewing him since, alas, too late!
They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;

But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE

UNDERNEATH this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse,

SIDNEY's sister, PEMBROKE's mother;
Death ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair, and good as she,

Time shall throw a dart at thee.

THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:
A lily of a day,

Is fairer far, in May,

Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.

ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.

HERE lies, to each her parents ruth,
MARY, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.

At six months end she parted hence

With safety of her innocence;

Whose soul heaven's Queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother's tears,

Hath placed amongst her virgin-train :
Where while that, severed, doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

ON MY FIRST SON.

FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy:
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

O, could I lose all father, now! for why,
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's, and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age!

Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here doth lie
BEN JONSON his best piece of poetry:

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

AN ODE TO HIMSELF.

WHERE dost Thou carless lie
Buried in ease and sloth ?
Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die ;
And this security,

It is the common moth,

That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both :

Are all the Aonian springs

Dried up lies Thespia waste?
Doth Clarius' harp want strings,
That not a nymph now sings;
Or droop they as disgrac'd,

To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defac'd?

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause;

Let this thought quicken thee :
Minds that are great and free

Should not on fortune pause,

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fry

Be taken with false baits

Of worded balladry

And think it poesy?

They die with their conceits,

And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

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