speare, by asking if he be not a mighty genius, | On the seath'd heath the fatal Sisters scowl: sufficiently illustrions and commanding to call Or, as hell's caldron bubbles o'er the flame, forth the choice spirits of a learned and intellec- Prepare to do a deed without a name. tual century to assert his greatness, and to march in his triumph to fame?

Yes, Master of the human heart! we own Thy sovereign sway; and bow before throne:

thy

Where, richly deck'd with laurels never sere,
It stands aloft, and baffles Time's career,
There warbles Poesy her sweetest song:
There the wild Passions wait, thy vassal throng.
There Love, there Hate, there Joy, in turn pre-
sides;

And rosy Laughter holding both his sides.
At thy command the varied tumult rolls:
Now Pity melts, now Terror chills our souls.
Now, as thou wavest thy wizard rod; are seen
The Fays and Elves quick glancing o'er the
green:

And, as the moon her perfect orb displays,
The little people sparkle in her rays.
There, 'mid the lightning's blaze, and whirl-
wind's howl,

These are thy wonders, Nature's darling birth!
And Fame exulting bears thy name o'er earth.
There, where Rome's eagle never stoop'd for
blood,

By hallow'd Ganges and Missouri's flood:
Where the bright eyelids of the Morn unclose;
And where Day's steeds in golden stalls repose;
Thy peaceful triumphs spread; and mock the
pride

Of Pella's Youth, and Julius slaughter-dyed.
In ages far remote, when Albion's state
Hath touch'd the mortal limit, mark'd by Fate:
When Arts and Science fly her naked shore:
And the world's Empress shall be great no more;
Then Australasia shall thy sway prolong;
And her rich cities echo with thy song.
There myriads still shall laugh, or drop the tear,
At Falstaff's humour, or the woes of Lear:
Man, wave-like, following man, thy powers
admire ;

And thou, iny Shakspeare, reign till time ex-
pire.
C. S.

TO THE MEMORY

OF MY BELOVED

MR. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE,

AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, 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, 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.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her

Inore ?

But thon art proof against them, and indeed
Above the' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumount 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 Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less
Greek,

From thence to honour thee, I will not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us.
Pacovius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live 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 desigus,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his ines!
As since, she will vouchsafe no other wit
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please:
Bot antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, 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 with it, that he thinks to frame.
Or for the laurel, he must 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 Shakspeare'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 water yet appear,
And make those slights 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!
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, bath
mourn'd like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volumes' light.
BEN JONSON

ON WORTHY MASTER SHAKSPEARE,

AND HIS POEMS.

THE PREFACE OF THE PLAYERS.

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST FOLIO EDITION PUBLISHED IN 1623.

TO THE GREAT VARIETY OF READERS.

From the most able, to him that can but spell: office of their care and paine, to have collected there you are number'd. We had rather you and publish'd them; and so to have publish'd were weigh'd. Especially when the fate of all them, as where (before) you were abus'd with Bookes depends upon your capacities: and not divers stolne, and surreptitious copies, maimed of your heads alone, but of your purses Well! and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of it is now publique, and you will stand for your injurious impostors, that expos'd them: even priviledges wee know: to read, and censure. those are now offer'd to your view cur'd, and Do so, but buy it first. That doth best commend perfect of their limbes; and all the rest, absolute a Booke, the Stationer sales. Then, how odde in their numbers, as he conceived them: Who, soever your braines be, or your wisedomes, as he was a happie imitator of Nature, was a make your licence the same, and spare not. most gentle expresser of it. His mind and hand Judge your sixe-pen'orth, your shillings worth, went together: and what he thought, he uttered your five shillings worth at a time, or higher, with easinesse, that wee have scarse received so you rise to the just rates, and welcome. But, from him a blot in his papers. But it is not nar whatever, you do, Bay. Censure will not drive province, who onely gather his works, and give a Trade, or make the Jacke go. And though them you, to praise him. It is yours that reade you be a Magistrate of wit, and sit on the Stage him. And there we hope, to your divers cepaat Black-Friers or the Cockpit, to arraigne cities, you will finde enough, both to draw, and Playes dailie, know, these Playes have had hold you for his wit can no more lie hid, then their triall alreadie, and stood out all Appeales; it could be lost. Read him, therefore; and and do now come forth quitted rather by a againe, and againe: And if then you doe not Decree of Court, than any purchas'd Letters of commendation.

like him, surely you are in some manifest dan ger, not to understand him. And so we leave you to other of his Friends. whom if you need, can bee your guides: if you neede them not, you can leade yourselves, and others. And such

It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to nave bene wished, that the Author himselfe had lived to have set forth, and overseen his owne writings But since it hath bin ordain'd other-readers we wish him. wise, and he by death departed from that right, we pray you, doe not envie his Friends, the l

JOHN HEMINGE,
HENRY CONDELL

ALL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits, and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being SEVEN AGES.

At first, the INFANT,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth: