The Fireside Encyclopaedia of Poetry: Comprising the Best Poems of the Most ...

These are, as

some infamous bawd, or

whore,

Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines:

Should praise a matron: what could hurt Which were so richly spun, and woven so her more? fit,

deed,

But thou art proof against them; and, in- As since she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not
please;

Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin :-Soul of the age,
The applause, delight, the wonder of our
stage,

But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.

My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art,

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 disproportion'd

muses:

For, if I thought my judgment were of

years,

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,

I should commit thee surely with thy For a good poet's made as well as born:

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,

And such wert thou. Look, how the fa-
ther's face

Lives in his issue; even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners,
brightly shines

In his well-turnèd and true-filed lines; From thence to honor thee, I would not In each of which he seems to shake a seek

lance,

For names; but call forth thundering As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes Shine forth, thou star of poets; and with

Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping

AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE
DRAMATIC POET, W. SHAKESPEARE.
WHAT need my Shakespeare for his
honour'd bones,

The labour of an age in pilèd stones;
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointed pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such dull witness of thy name?

Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, Hast built thyself a lasting monument: For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

Thy easy numbers flow; and that each part

Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;

Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much con

When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

UPON THE SUDDEN RESTRAINT OF
THE EARL OF SOMERSET, THEN
FALLING FROM FAVOR.
DAZZLED thus with height of place,
Whilst our hopes our wits beguile,
No man marks the narrow space
'Twixt a prison and a smile.

Then, since Fortune's favors fade,

You that in her arms do sleep Learn to swim, and not to wade, For the hearts of kings are deep.

But if greatness be so blind

As to trust in towers of air, Let it be with goodness lined,

That at least the fall be fair.

Then, though darken'd, you shall say, When friends fail and princes frown, Virtue is the roughest way

But proves at night a bed of down.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND.

HE that of such a height hath built his mind,

And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,

As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame

Of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same;
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he

may

The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!

And with how free an eye doth he look

down

Upon these lower regions of turmoil!

Where all the storms of passions mainly Of troublous and distress'd mortality,
beat
That thus make way unto the ugly birth
On flesh and blood: where honor, power, Of their own sorrows, and do still beget

Great pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails; As from the shore of peace, with unwet
Justice, he sees, (as if seducèd) still
Conspires with power, whose cause must

not be ill.

He sees the face of right t' appear as manifold

As are the passions of uncertain man;
Who puts it in all colors, all attires,

To serve his ends, and make his courses hold.

eye,

And bears no venture in impiety.

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath prepared

A rest for his desires, and sees all things Beneath him; and hath learn'd this book

of man,

Full of the notes of frailty; and compared
The best of glory with her sufferings;

He sees, that let deceit work what it By whom, I see, you labor all you can

Nor is he moved with all the thunder- Beyond the feeble limits of your kind,

cracks

Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes;

Charged with more crying sins than those he checks.

As they can stand against the strongest

head

Passion can make; inured to any hue
The world can cast; that cannot cast that

mind

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see The storms of sad confusion, that may Both what the best and worst of earth can

Of a clear conscience, that (without all A heart prepared, that fears no ill to

stain)

Rises in peace, in innocency rests;
Whilst all what Malice from without pro-

cures,

Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours.

And whereas none rejoice more in re

come;

And that man's greatness rests but in his show,

The best of all whose days consumed

are,

Either in war, or peace conceiving war.

This concord, madam, of a well-tuned mind Hath been so set by that all-working Hand Than women use to do; yet you well Of heaven, that though the world hath

venge

know,

That wrong is better checked by being contemn'd,

done his worst

To put it out by discords most unkind, Yet doth it still in perfect union stand

Than being pursued; leaving to Him t' With God and man; nor ever will be forced From that most sweet accord, but still agree,

avenge

To whom it appertains. Wherein you Equal in fortune's inequality.

show

How worthily your clearness hath condemn'd

Base malediction, living in the dark,
That at the rays of goodness still doth
bark.

Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, about the which
These revolutions of disturbances
Still roll; where all th' aspects of misery
Predominate; whose strong effects are such
As he must bear, being powerless to re-

dress;

And that unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!

And how turmoil'd they are that level lie With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence;

That never are at peace with their desires, But work beyond their years; and even deny

Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispense With death: that when ability expires, Desire lives still so much delight they have

To carry toil and travel to the grave.

Whose ends you see; and what can be the best

They reach unto, when they have cast the

And this note, madam, of your worthiness Remains recorded in so many hearts,

As time nor malice cannot wrong your right,

In th' inheritance of fame you must pos

sess:

You that have built you by your great de

serts

(Out of small means) a far more exquisite And glorious dwelling for your honor'd

name

Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY,
A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL.
WEEP with me, all you that read
This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As heaven and nature seem'd to strive
Which own'd the creature.
Years he number'd scarce thirteen
When fates turn'd cruel,
Yet three fill'd Zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;

And did act, what now we moan,

Old men so duly,

As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,

He play'd so truly.

TO VINCENT CORBET, MY SON.
WHAT I shall leave thee, none can tell,
But all shall say I wish thee well.
I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;

Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning not for show,
Enough for to instruct and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table or at fire.

I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes and his places.

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. THIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, What kind of creature I could most desire,

To honor, serve, and love; as poets use, I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;

I meant the day-star should not brighter

rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent

seat.

I meant she should be courteous, facile,

sweet,

Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;

I meant each softest virtue there should

meet,

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned and a manly soul

I purposed her; that should, with even

powers,

The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.

Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see,

My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she.

OF MYSELF.

BEN JONSON.

THIS only grant me, that my means may

lie

Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honor I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone; The unknown are better than ill known: Rumor can ope the grave.

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