(Unwilling now to grow,)

Looks like the plume a captain wears,,.
Whofe rifled falls are steept i'th' tears.
Which from his laft rage flow.

III.

The piteous river wept itself away,
Long fince (alas !) to fuch a swift decay,
That reach the map, and look

If you a river there can spy:

And, for a river, your mock'd eye.
Will find a fhallow brooke.

W. DAVENAN T

On the Effigies of SHAKESPEARE, prefix'd to his printed Works.

HIS.gure, that thou here feeft put,

ΤΗ

It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;

Wherein the graver had a ftrife
With nature, to out-doo the life:
O, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brafs, as he hath hit

His face; the print would then furpaffe.
All, that was ever writ in braffe.

But, fince he cannot, reader, look.

Not on his picture, but his book.

B. J

CHUKIENKIENKI ❀ ENKIENKIENKO

To the Memory of my Beloved, the Author, Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE;

And what he hath left us.

O draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name.
Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame:

T%

While I confefs thy writings to be fuch,
As neither man, nor mufe, can praise too much.

'Tis true, and all mens fuffrage. But thefe way
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For feelieft ignorance on thefe may light,

Which, when it founds at best, but echces right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praife,
And think to ruin, where it feem'd to raife.
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 th' ill fortune of them, or the need.

I therefore will begin.-Soul of the age!
Th' applaufe! delight! the wonder of our fage!
My Shakespeare, rife! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenfer, 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 excufes ;
I mean with great, but difproportion'd mufes :
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
Ifhould commit thee, fusely, with thy peers:
And tell how far thou didst our Lilly out-thine,.
Or fporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadst fmall Latin and lefs Greek,.
From thence to honour thee, I would not feek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Afcbylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy Bufkin tread,
And thake a flage: Or, when thy focks were on,.
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all, that infolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth,
Triumph, my Britain! thou haft one to show,
To whom all feenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the mufes ftill were in their prime,

or fince did from their afhes come.

When

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 wove fo fit,
As, fince, fhe will vouchfafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Ariftophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; t
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 fashion: And, that he,
Who cafts to write a living line, muft fweat
(Such as thine are) and ftrike the fecond beat
Upon the mufes anvile; turn the fame,
(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 fuch wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his iffue, even fo the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly fhines
In his well-torned, 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 fight it were
To fee thee in our water yet appear,

And make thofe flights upon the banks of Thames,..
That fo did take Eliza and our James!

But ftay, I fee thee in the hemifphere

Advanc'd, and made a conftellation there!

Shine forth, thou ftarre of Poet's and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or chear, the drooping ftage:
Which, fince thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like

night,

And defpairs day, but for thy volume's light.
BEN JOHNSON.

THE

THE

PREFACE.

TH

HE attempt to write upon SHAK E

SPEARE is like going into a large, a fpacious, and a fplendid dome, through, the conveyance of a narrow and obfcure entry. A glare of light fuddenly breaks upon you beyond what the avenue at firft promifed: and a thousand beauties of genius and character, like. fo many gaudy, apartments pouring at once upon the eye, diffufe and throw themselves out to the mind. The profpect is too wide to come within the compafs of a fingle view: 'tis a gay confufion, of pleafing objects, too various to be enjoyed but. in a general admiration; and they must be feparated, and eyed diftinctly, in order to give the proper entertainment.

And as in great piles of building, fome parts. are often finished up to hit the taste of the connoiffeur; others more negligently put together, to

ftrike

frike the fancy of a common and unlearned be-. holder: Some parts are made ftupendously magnificent and grand, to surprize with the vaft defign and execution of the architect; others are contracted, to amufe you with his neatness and elegance in little. Sc, in Shakespeare, we may findTraits that will ftand the teft of the fevereft judgment; and strokes as carelessly hit off, to the level of the more ordinary capacities: Some de-. fcriptions raised to that pitch of grandeur, as.to aftonish you with the compafs and elevation of his thought and others copying nature within fo narrow, fo confined a circle, as if the author's talent lay only at drawing in miniature.

In how many points of light must we be obliged to gaze at this great poet! In how many branches of excellence to confider, and admire him! Whether we view him on the fide of art or nature, he ought equally to engage our attention: Whether we refpect the force and greatnefs of his genius, the extent of his knowledge. and reading, the power and addrefs with which he throws out and applies either nature, or learning, there is ample scope both for our wonder and pleafure. If his diction, and the cloathing of· his thoughts attrat us, how much more muft we be charmed with the richness, and variety, of his images and ideas! If his images and ideas fteal: into our Souls, and strike upon our fancy, how much are they improved in price, when we come