Baptifms, Marriages, Burials, &c.

Humphrey, son of John Shakfpere, was baptized May 24, 1590. Philip, fon of John Shakfpere, was baptized Sept. 21, 1591.

Samuel, fon of WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, was buried Aug. 11, 1596.

Mr. John Shakfpere was buried Sept. 8, 1601.

* John Hall, gent. and Sufanna Shakspere were married June 5, 1607.

Mary Shakfpere, widow, was buried Sept. 9, 1608.

Gilbert Shakspere, adolefcens, was buried Feb. 3, 1611,
Richard Shakspere was buried Feb. 4, 1612.

Thomas Queeny and 5 Judith Shakspere were married Feb. 10, 1616.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE ||, gentleman, was buried April 25, 1616.

6 Mrs. Shakspere was buried Aug. 6, 1623.

* This gentleman was a physician: he married the poet's eldest daughter. 5 Judith was the poet's youngest daughter.

As Shakespeare the poet married his wife from Shottery, a village near Stratford, poffibly he might become poffeffor of a remarkable house there, as part of her portion; and jointly with his wife convey it as part of their daughter Judith's portion to Thomas Queeny. It is certain that one Queeny, an elderly gentleman, fold it to - Harvey, efq; of Stockton, near Southam, Warwickshire, father of John Harvey Thursby, efq; of Abington, near Northampton; and that the aforefaid Harvey fold it again to Samuel Tyler, efq; whofe fifters, as his heirs, now enjoy it.

Died the 23d.
The poet's widow,

Upon the Effigies of my worthy Friend, the Author Mafter WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

and his Works.

Spectator, this life's fhadow is;—to fee
The truer image, and a livelier be,
Turn reader: but obferve his comick vein,
Laugh; and proceed next to a tragick firain,
Then weep: fo,-when thou find'st two contraries,
Two different paffions, from thy rapt soul rife,-
Say, (who alone effect fuch wonders could)
Rare Shakespeare to the life thou doft behold.

To the Reader.

This figure, that thou here fee'ft put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;
Wherein the graver had a ftrife
With nature, to out-do the life:
O, could be but have drawn his wit
As well in brafs, as he bath hit
His face; the print would then furpafs
All, that was ever writ in brass:
But, fince he cannot, reader, look

Not on his picture, but his book.

To the Memory of my Beloved,

B. J.

the Author Mr. 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 confefs thy writings to be fuck,
As neither man, nor mufe, can praife too much;
'Tis true, and all men's fuffrage. but thefe ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praife:

For

For feelieft ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it founds at best, but echoes 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 feem'd to raise:
Thefe are as fome infamous bawd, or whore,
Should praife a matron; what could hurt her more ?
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 applaufe, delight, the wonder of our stage,
My Shakespeare, rife! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spencer; or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument, without a tomb;
And art alive ftill, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praife to give.
That I not mix thee fo, my brain excuses;
I mean, with great but difproportion'd mufes :
For, if I thought my judgment were of years,
I fhould commit thee furely with thy peers;
And tell how far thou didst our Lilly outfbine,
Or fporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadst fmall Latin, and lefs Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thundring Æfckylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead;
To live again, to hear thy bufkin tread
And foake a ftage: or, when thy focks were on,
Leave thee alone; for the comparison

Of all, that infolent Greece, or baughty Rome,
Sent forth, or fince did from their afbes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou baft one to show,
To whom all fcenes of Europe bomage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time,
And all the mufes ftill were in their prime,
[N 3]

Wen

When like Apollo he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm.
Nature herself was proud of his defigns,
And joy'd to wear the dreffing of his lines;
Which were fo richly fpun, and woven fo fit,
As, fince, he will vouchsafe no other wit:
The merry Greek, tart Ariftophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please
But antiquated and deferted 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 fafbion: and that he,
Who cafts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and firike a fecond beat
Upon the Mufes anvil; turn the fame,
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame;
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a fcorn,-
For a good poet's made, as well as born:
And fuch wert thou: Look, how the father's face
Lives in his iffue; even fo the race

Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly fbines
In his well-torned and true-filed lines;

In each of which he feems to shake a lance,

As brandifl'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet fwan of Avon, what a fight it were,-
To fee thee in our waters yet appear;

And make thofe flights upon the banks of Thames,
That fo did take Eliza, and our James!
But flay I fee thee in the hemifphere
Advanc'd, and made a conftellation there:
Shine forth, thou ftar of poets; and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping stage;
Which, fince thy flight from hence, bath mourn'd like night,
And defpairs day, but by thy volume's light!

BEN JONSON.

Upon

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 Phabus clouds his rays;
That corpfe, that coffin, now beftick thofe bays,
Which crown'd him poet first, then poets' king.
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-house) the Nuntius is:
For, though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines fhall never out.

HUGH HOLLAND.

To the Memory of

the deceased Author, Mafter W. SHAKESPEARE.

Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give
The world thy works; thy works, by which outlive
Thy tomb, thy name must: when that ftone is rent,
And time diffolves thy Stratford monument,
Here we alive fball view thee ftill; this book,
When brass and marble fade, shall 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 fball revive, redeem thee from thy herfe.
Nor fire, nor cank'ring age-as Nafo faid
Of bis,-thy wit fraught book fhall once invade:
Nor fa!! I e'er believe or think thee dead,
Though mift, until our bankrout ftage be Sped
[N 4]

(Impoffible)