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.

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.

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 mourned like night

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

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

I LOVE, and He loves me again ;
Yet dare I not tell, Who!

For if the Nymphs should know my Swain;
I fear they'd love him too!

Yet if it be not known;

The pleasure is as good as none!

For that 's a narrow joy, is but our own!

I'll tell that, if they be not glad,
They may yet envy me!
But then, if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be;

It were a plague 'bove scorn!

And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn!

He is (if they can find him!) fair!
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purgèd air!
And looks as lilies do

That are, this morning, blown!

Yet, yet, I doubt, He is not known;

And fear much more, that more of him be shown!

But He hath Eyes so round and bright,

As make away my doubt!
Where Love may all his torches light;
Though hate had put them out!
But then, t' increase my fears,
What Nymph soe'er, his Voice but hears,
Will be my rival! though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more! and yet I love,
And He loves me! Yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know!

But so exempt from blame;

As it would be, to each a fame!

If love, or fear, would let me tell his name.

THOUGH I am young, and cannot tell Either what DEATH, or LOVE, is well: Yet I have heard, They both bear darts; And both do aim at human hearts!