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 outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, 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 thundering Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, 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,

Betwixt this day and that, by fate be slain,
For whom your curtains may be drawn again.
But if precedency in death doth bar

A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre,
Under this carved marble of thine own,

Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakespeare, sleep alone:

Thy unmolested peace, 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.

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-filèd 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.*

BEN JONSON.

*Upon these superb lines Dyce makes the following just comment: "That a sincere friendship existed between Shakespeare and Jonson will never again be doubted after the excellent memoir of the latter by Gifford; and, indeed, it is surprising that the alleged enmity of Jonson towards Shakespeare should not have had an earlier refutation, especially as Jonson's writings exhibit the most unequivocal testimony of his affectionate admiration of Shakespeare. A more glowing eulogy than the verses 'To the Memory of MY BELOVED, the Author, MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,' was never penned."

To the Memory of the deceased Author, Master 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 loathe what's new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare's, every 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 miss'd, until our bankrupt 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

Than when thy half-sword-parleying Romans spake :
Till these, till any of thy volume's rest,

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

LEONARD DIGGES.*

* Leonard Digges, born in London, was educated at University College, Oxford; to which college, after travelling" into several countries," he retired; and died there in 1635. Though a very poor poet, he was a person of considerable accomplishments, as is shown by his translation of Claudian's Rape of Proserpine, and of Gonçalo de Cespides's Gerardo, the unfortunate Spaniard. He has another and much longer eulogy on Shakespeare, prefixed to the edition of our author's Poems, 1640. — DYCE.

To the Memory of Master W. SHAKESPEARE.

WE Wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou went'st so soon
From the world's stage to the grave's tiring-room:
We thought thee dead; but this thy printed worth
Tells thy spectators that thou went'st but forth
To enter with applause. An actor's art
Can die, and live to act a second part:
That's but an exit of mortality,

This a re-entrance to a plaudite.

J. M.*

Upon the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenic Poet, Master
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THOSE hands which you so clapp'd, go now and wring,
You Britons 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:
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring,
Turn'd all to tears, and Phœbus clouds his rays:
That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays
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 Nuntius is:
For, though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.

HUGH HOLLAND.†

* Mr. Bolton Corney, in Notes and Queries, leaves hardly any doubt that these are the initials of James Mabbe, who is described by Wood as “a learned man, good orator, and a facetious conceited wit." He became prebendary of Wells, and died about the year 1642.

† Hugh Holland was a Welshman, who became fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; travelled to Jerusalem, "to do his devotions to the holy sepulchre"; afterwards spent some years at Oxford "for the sake of the public library" there, and "died within the city of Westminster in 1633."— DYCE.

COMMENDATORY VERSES PREFIXED TO THE FOLIO OF 1632.*

Upon the Effigies of my worthy Friend, the Author, Master WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, and his Works.

SPECTATOR, this life's shadow is to see
This truer image and a livelier he,

Turn reader. But observe his comic vein,
Laugh; and proceed next to a tragic strain,
Then weep: so, when thou find'st two contrairies,
Two different passions from thy rapt soul rise,
Say- who alone effect such wonders could-
Rare Shakespeare to the life thou dost behold

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 live-long monument:

For whilst, to th' 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;

* The second folio prints the following pieces in addition to those that precede.