JOHN HEMINGE, 1623

(d. 1630)

HENRIE CONDELL

(d. 1627)

"To the great Variety of Readers."

HIS mind and hand went together: and what he thought he uttered with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our province, who only gather his works, and give them you, to praise him. It is yours that read him. And there we hope, to your divers capacities, you will find enough, both to draw, and hold you: for his wit can no more lie hid, than it could be lost. Read him, therefore; and again, and again and if then you do not like him, surely you are in some manifest danger, not to understand him. And so we leave you to other of his friends, whom, if you need, can be your guides: if you need them not, you can lead yourselves, and others. And such readers we wish him.

Address prefixed to the First Folio Edition of

Shakespeare's Works. 1623.

LEONARD DIGGES, 1623
(1588-1635)

"To the Memorie of the deceased Author, Maister W. Shakespeare."

SHAKESPEARE, at length thy pious fellows give

The world thy Works: thy Works, by which, out-live
Thy Tomb, thy name must: when that stone is rent,
And Time dissolves thy Stratford Monument,
Here we alive shall view thee still. This Book,
When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look
Fresh to all ages: when posterity

Shall loath what's new, thinke all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare's; ev'ry line, each verse,
Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy hearse.
Nor fire, nor cankering age, as Naso said,
Of his, thy wit-fraught Book, shall once invade.
Nor shall I e'er believe, or think thee dead
(Though missed), until our bankrout Stage be sped
(Impossible) with some new strain t' out-do
Passions of Juliet, and her Romeo ;

Or till I hear a scene more nobly take,

Then when thy half-sword parlying Romans spake,
Till these, till any of thy Volumes rest

Shall with more fire, more feeling be expressed,
Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But crown'd with laurel, live eternally.

Prefixed to the First Folio Edition of

MICHAEL DRAYTON, 1627
(1563-1631)

"To my most dearly-loved friend Henery Reynolds, Esquire, of Poets and Poesie."

SHAKESPEARE, thou hadst as smooth a comic vein,
Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain,
As strong conception, and as clear a rage

As any one that trafick'd with the stage.

Elegies at the end of The Battaile of Agincourt. 1627, p. 206.

JOHN MILTON, 1630
(1608-1674)

"An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare."

WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?

Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a life-long monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchr'd, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings, for such a tomb should wish to die.

Prefixed to Second Folio Edition of

Shakespeare's Works. 1632.

I. M. S., 1632

"On worthy Master Shakespeare and his Poems."
A MIND reflecting ages past, whose clear
And equal surface can make things appear
Distant a thousand years, and represent
Them in their lively colours' just extent.
To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Roll back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where (confused) lie
Great heaps of ruinous mortality.

In that deep dusky dungeon to discern

A royal ghost from churls: by art to learn
The physiognomy of shades, and give
Them sudden birth, wond'ring how oft they live.
What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and picture without brain
Senseless and soulless shows. To give a stage
(Ample and true with life) voice, action, age,
As Plato's year and new scene of the world
Them unto us, or us to them had hurl'd.
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their herse,
Make kings his subjects, by exchanging verse
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage:
Yet so to temper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain; and eyes in tears
Both weep and smile; fearful at plots so sad,
Then, laughing at our fear; abus'd, and glad