Bounteous, as the clouds to earth!
And as honest as his birth!
'All his actions to be such,
As to do nothing too much!
Nor o'erpraise; nor yet condemn !
Nor outvalue; nor contemn!

Nor do wrongs; nor wrongs receive!
Nor tie knots; nor knots unweave!
And from baseness to be free,
As he durst love Truth and me!

'Such a Man, with every part,

I could give my very heart!
But, of one if short he came;

I can rest me where I am!'

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE.

THIS figure, that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle SHAKESPEARE cut!
Wherein the Graver had a strife
With Nature, to outdo the life.

O, could he but have drawn his Wit
As well in brass, as he hath hit
His Face! the Print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass.

But since he cannot; Reader, look
Not on his Picture; but his Book!

ON THE DEATH OF

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

WHO DIED IN APRIL, ANNO DOMINI 1616.

RENOWNED SPENSER, lie a thought more nigh To learnèd CHAUCER! and, rare BEAUMONT, lie A little nearer SPENSER ! to make room For SHAKESPEARE in your threefold, fourfold, tomb. To lodge all four in one bed, make a shift Until Doomsday! for hardly will a fifth Betwixt this day and that, by Fates be slain: For whom your curtains may be drawn again! If your precedency in death do bar

A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre;

Under this sacred marble of thine own,
Sleep, rare Tragedian! SHAKESPEARE! sleep alone
Thy unmolested peace, in an unshared cave!
Possess as Lord, not tenant, of thy grave!
That unto us and others, it may be
Honour hereafter to be laid by thee.

BEN JONSON.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR, MASTER 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 confess thy Writings to be such As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much! 'Tis true! and all men's suffrage! But these ways Were not the paths, I meant unto thy praise!

For silliest Ignorance on these may light;

Which, when it sounds at best, 's but Echo's right!
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 more?
But thou art proof against them: and, indeed,

Above th' ill fortune of them; or the need!

I therefore will begin. Soul of the Age! The applause, delight, and 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 judgement were of years, I should commit thee, surely, with thy peers! And tell, how far thou didst our LYLY outshine; Or sporting KYD, or MARLOW's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek ;
From thence, to honour thee, I would not seek
For names: but call forth thund'ring ÆSCHYLUS,
EURIPIDES, and SOPHOCLES to us!

PACCUVIUS, ACCIUS, him of Cordova dead,
To life again! to hear thy Buskin tread
And shake a Stage! Or when thy Sock was 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-turnèd and true-fillèd lines!

In each of which, he seems to Shake a Lance!
As brandished at the eyes of Ignorance.