Thy Comick Sock induc'd fuch purged Senfe,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongst those foaring Wits that did dilate
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thy felf was one
Helpt lift it up to fuch proportion,
That thus refin'd and roab'd it fhall not spare
With the full Greek or Latin to compare.
For what Tongue ever durft, but ours, translate
Great Tully's Eloquence, or Homer's State?
Both which in their unblemish'd Luftre fhine,
From Chapman's Pen, and from thy Catiline.
All I would ask for thee, in recompence
Of thy fuccessful Toyl, and Times expence
Is only this poor boon: That those who can
Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,
Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,
(To fhew their Skill in foreign Dialect) Prove not themselves fo unnat' rally wife
They therefore should their Mother-tongue defpife: (As if her Poets both for Stile and Wit,
Not equal'd, or not pafs'd their best that Writ)
Until by ftudying Johnson they have known
The Heighth, and Strength, and Plenty of their own.
Thus in what low Earth, or neglected Room,
So e'er thou fleep'ft, thy Book shall be thy Tomb,
Thou wilt go down a happy Coarfe, beftrew'd
With thine own Flowers, and feel thy felf renew'd,
Whilft thy immortal, never with'ring Bays
Shall yearly flourish in thy Reader's Praife.
And when more spreading Titles are forgot,
Or, fpight of all their Lead and Sear cloth, rot;
Thou wrapt and shrin'd in thine own Sheets wilt
A Relick fam'd by all Pofterity.
To the Memory of BEN. JOHNSON.
By Mr. Jafper Mayne.
S when the Veftal Hearth went out, no fire
A Les Holy than the flame that did expire
Could kindle it again: So at thy fall
Our Wit, great Ben, is too Apocryphal
To celebrate the Lofs, fince 'tis too much
To write thy Epitaph, and not be fuch.
What thou wert, like th' hard Oracles of old,
Without an Ecftafie cannot be told.
We must be ravifh'd firft, thou must infufe
Thy felf into us both the Theam and Muse.
Elfe, (though we all confpir'd to make thy Herfe
Our Works) fo that 't had been but one great Verse,
Though the Priest had translated for that time
The Liturgy, and bury'd thee in Rhime,
So that in Meeter we had heard it faid,
Poetick Duft is to Poetick laid:
And though that Duft being Shakespear's thou might'ft
Not his Room, but the Poet for thy Grave;
So that, as thou didst Prince of Numbers die
And live, so now thou might'ft in Numbers lye,
'Twere frail Solemnity; Verses on thee
And not like thine, would but kind Libels be;
And we, (not speaking thy whole Worth) fhould raise
Worfe blots, than they that envied thy Praife.
Indeed, thou need'ft us not, fince above all
Invention, thou wert thine own Funeral.
Hereafter, when Time hath fed on thy Tomb,
Th' Infcription worn out, and the Marble dumb
So that 'twould pose a Critick to restore
Half Words, and Words expir'd fo long before.
When thy maim'd Statue hath a sentenc'd Face,
And Looks that are the horror of the Place,
That 'twill be Learning, and Antiquity,
And ask a Selden to fay, This was thee,
Thou'lt have a whole Name ftill, nor need'ft thou
That will be ruin'd, or lofe Nose, or Hair.
Let others write so thin, that they can't be
Authors till rotten, no Pofterity
[then
Can add to thy Works; th' had their whole growth
When firft Born, and came aged from thy Pen.
Whilft living thou enjoy'dft the fame and fenfe
Of all that time gives but the Reverence.
When th'art of Homer's Years, no Man will fay
Thy Poems are lefs worthy, but more gray:
'Tis Baftard-Poetry, and o'th' falfe Blood
Which can't without Succeffion be good.
Things that will always laft, do thus agree
With things eternal; th'at once perfect be.
Scorn then their Cenfures, who gave't out, thy Wit
As long upon a Comedy did fit
As Elephants bring forth; and that thy Blots
And Mendings took more time than Fortune Plots:
That fuch thy Drought was, and fo great thy Thirst,
That all thy Plays were drawn at th' Mermaid first:
That the King's yearly Butt wrote, and his Wine
Hath more right than thou to thy Catiline.
Let fuch Men keep a Diet, let their Wit
Be rack'd, and while they write, suffer a Fit.
When they've felt Tortures which out-pain the Gout,
Such, as with lefs, the State draws Treafon out;
Though they fhould the length of Confumptions lye
Sick of their Verfe, and of their Poem dye,
'Twould not be thy worft Scene, but would at last
Confirm their Boaftings, and fhew made in hafte.
He that writes well, writes quick, fince the Rule's true,
Nothing is flowly done, that's always new.
So when thy Fox had ten times acted been,
Each day was firft, but that 'twas cheaper feen.
And fo thy Alchymift plaid o'er and o'er,
Was new o'th' Stage, when 'twas not at the Door,
We, like the A&tors did repeat, the Pit
The first time faw, the next conceiv'd thy Wit:
Which was caft in thofe Forms, fuch Rules, fuch Arts,
That but to fome not half thy Acts were Parts:
Since of fome filken Judgments we may fay,
They fill'd a Box two Hours, but faw no Play.
So that th' unlearned doft their Mony, and
Scholars fav'd only, that could understand.
Thy Scene was free from Monsters, no hard Plot
Call'd down a God t'unty th'unlikely Knot.
The Stage was ftill a Stage, two Entrances
Were not two Parts o'th' World, disjoin'd by Seas.
Thine were Land-Tragedies, no Prince was found
To fwim a whole Scene out, then o'th' Stage drown'd;
Pitch'd Fields, as red Bull Wars, ftill felt thy Doom,
Thou laid❜ft no Sieges to the Musick-Room;
Nor would't allow to thy best Comedies
Humours that should above the People rife:
Yet was thy Language and thy Stile fo high,
Thy Sock to th' ancle, Buskin reach'd to th' thigh;
And both fo chaft, fo 'bove Dramatick clean,
That we both fafely faw, and liv'd thy Scene.
No foul loofe Line did proftitute thy Wit,
Thou wrot'ftathy Comedies, didst not commit.
We did the Vice arraign'd not tempting hear,
And were made Judges, not bad Parts by th' Ear.
For thou ev'n Sin didft in such words array,
That fome who came bad Parts, went out good Play.
Which ended not with th’Epilogue, the Age
Still acted, which grew Innocent from th' Stage.
'Tis true thou hadst fome Sharpness, but thy Salt
Serv'd but with Pleafure to reform the Fault.
Men were laugh'd into Virtue, and none more
Hated Face acted than were fuch before.
So did thy Sting not Blood, but Humors draw,
So much doth Satyr more correct than Law;
Which was not Nature in thee, as fome call
Thy Teeth, who fay thy Wit lay in thy Gall,
That thou didst quarrel firft, and then, in spight,
Didft 'gainst a Person of fuch Vices write:
That 'twas Revenge, not Truth; that on the Stage
Garlo was not presented, but thy Rage:
And that when thou in company wert met,
Thy Meat took Notes, and thy Difcourfe was Net.
We know thy free Vein had this Innocence,
To spare the Party, and to brand th' Offence.
And the juft Indignation thou wert in
Did not expofe Shift, but his Tricks and Ginn.
Thou mightft have us'd th' old Comick freedom,these
Might have seen themselves plaid, like Socrates.
Like Cleon, Mammon might the Knight have been,
If, as Greek Authors, thou hadft turn'd Greek spleen;
And hadft not chofen rather to tranflate
Their Learning into English, not their hate:
Indeed this laft, if thou hadst been bereft
Of thy Humanity, might be call'd Theft.
The other was not; whatfoe'er was strange
Or borrow'd in thee did grow thine by th' change.
Who without Latin helps hadft been as rare
As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shakespear were:
And like them, from thy native Stock couldft say,
Poets and Kings are not born every Day.
In Memory of the most Worthy BENJAMIN JOHNSON.
By Mr. W. CARTWRIGHT.
Ather of Poets, though thine own great Day
Father from thy felf, fcorns that a weaker ray
Should twine in luftre with it: Yet my Flame, Kindled from thine, flies upwards tow'rds thy Name. For in the Acclamation of the lefs
There's Piety, though from it no access.
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