ANONYMOUS, 1623

Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, Terra tegit, populus maeret, Olympus habet.

STAY, passenger, who goest thou by so fast?

Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath placed
Within this monument; Shakespeare with whom
Quick nature died; whose name doth deck this tomb
Far more than cost; sith all that he hath writ
Leaves living art but page to serve his wit.

Inscription on the Monument erected to Shake-
speare's Memory in the Parish Church at
Stratford-on-Avon. 1623.

BEN JONSON, 1623
(1573-1637)

"To the memory of my beloved, 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 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 seeliest Ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds 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 seem'd to raise . .
But thou art proof against them, and in deed
Above th' 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 disproportion'd 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 Lyly out-shine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlowe'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 Æschilus,
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 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 joy'd 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 Muse's anvil: turn the same

(And himself in 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 turned 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 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 mourn'd like night,

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

Prefixed to the First Folio Edition of

Shakespeare's Works.

HUGH HOLLAND, 1623
(d. 1633)

"Upon the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenick Poet, Master William Shakespeare."

THOSE hands, which you so clapt, go now, and wring

You Britain's brave; for done are Shakespeare's days:
His days are done, that made the dainty Plays,
Which make the Globe of heav'n and earth to ring.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian Spring,

Turn'd all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays:
That corpse, that coffin now bestick those bayes,
Which crown'd him Poet first, then Poet's King.
If Tragedies might any Prologue have,

All those he made, would scarce make one to this:
Where Fame, now that he gone is to the grave

(Death's public tiring-house), the Nuncius is. For though his line of life went soon about, The life yet of his lines shall never out.

Prefixed to the First Folio Edition of

Shakespeare's Works.