Where Shakspeare liv'd or fpake, Vermin, forbear!
Left with your froth ye fpot them, come not near!
But if you needs muft write, if poverty

So pinch, that otherwife you ftarve and die;
On God's name may the Bull or Cockpit have
Your lame blank verfe, to keep you from the grave:
Or let new Fortune's younger brethern fee,
What they can pick from your lean induftry.
I do not wonder when you offer at
Black-friars, that you fuffer: 'tis the fate

Of richer veins; prime judgments, that have far'd
The worfe, with this deceafed man compar'd.
So have I feen, when Cafar would appear,
And on the ftage at half-fword parley were
Brutus and Caffius, O how the audience

Were ravifh'd! with what wonder they went thence!
When, some new day, they would not brook a line
Of tedious, though well-labour'd, Catiline;
Sejanus too, was irkfome; they priz'd more
"Honeft" Iago, or the jealous Moor.
And though the Fox and fubtil Alchymift,
Long intermitted, could not quite be mist,
Though these have fham'd all th'ancients, and might raise
Their author's merit with a crown of bays,
Yet thefe fometimes, even at a friend's defire,
Acted, have fcarce defray'd the fea-coal fire,
And door-keepers: when, let but Falstaff come,
Hal, poins, the reft, fcarce fhall have a room,

you

All is fo pefter'd Let but Beatrice

:

And Benedick be feen, lo! in a trice

The cock-pit, galleries, boxes, all are full,
To hear Malvolio, that crofs-garter'd gull.

Brief, there is nothing in his wit-fraught book,

Whofe found we would not hear, on whofe worth look: Like old-coin'd gold, whofe lines, in every page,

4 This, I believe, alludes to fome of the company of The Fortune playhouse, who removed to the Red Bull. See a Prologue on the removing of the late Fortune players to The Bull. Tatham's Fancies Theatre, 1640. MALONE.

Shall pafs true current to fucceeding age.
But why do I dead Shakspeare's praife recite?
Some fecond Shakspeare muft of Shakspeare write;
For me, 'tis needlefs; fince an hoft of men
Will pay, to clap his praife, to free my pen.
LEON. DIGGES.

'An Elegy on the death of that famous writer and actor, Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

I dare not do they memory that wrong,
Unto our larger griefs to give a tongue.
I'll only figh in carneft, and let fall
My folemn tears at thy great funeral.
For every eye that rains a fhow'r for thee,
Laments thy lofs in a fad elegy.

Nor is it fit each humble mufe fhould have
Thy worth his fubject, now thou art laid in grave.
No, it's a flight beyond the pitch of those,
Whofe worthlefs pamphlets are not fenfe in profe.
Let learned Jonfon fing a dirge for thee,
And fill our orb with mournful harmony:
But we need no remembrancer; thy fame
Shall fill accompany thy honour'd name
To all pofterity; and make us be

Senfible of what we loft, in lofing thee:
Being the age's wonder; whofe smooth rhymes
Did more reform than lafh the loofer times.
Nature herfelf did her own felf admire,.
As oft as thou wert pleafed to attire
Her in her native luftre; and confefs,
Thy dreffing was her chiefeft comeliness.
How can we then forget thee, when the age
Her chiefeft tutor, and the widow'd ftage
Her only favorite, in thee, hath loft,
And Nature's felf, what he did brag of moft?

5 Thefe verfes are prefixed to a fpurious edition of Shakspeare's poems, in fmall o&avo, printed in 1640. MALONE.

Sleep then, rich foul of numbers! whilft poor we
Enjoy the profits of thy legacy;

And think it happiness enough, we have
So much of thee redeemed from the grave,
As may fuffice to englighten future times
With the bright luftre of thy matchless rhymes. 6

In Memory of our famous SHAKSPEARE.
Sacred Spirit, whiles thy lyre

Echoed o'er the Arcadian plains,
Even Apollo did admire,

Orpheus wonder'd at thy ftrains:
Plautus figh'd, Sophocles wept
Tears of anger, for to hear,
After they fo long had flept,

So bright a genius fhould appear;
Who wrote his lines with a fun-beam,
More durable thaa time or fate:
Others boldly do blafpheme,

Like thofe that feem to preach, but prate.

Thou wert truly prieft elect,

Chofen darling to the Nine,

Such a trophy to erect

By thy wit and fkill divine.
That were all their other glories
(Thine excepted) torn away,
By thy admirable stories

Their garments ever shall be gay.

Where thy honour'd bones do lie,
(As Statius once to Maro's urn,)
Thither every year will I

Slowly tread, and fadly mourn.

S. SHEPPARD. 7

6 These anonymous verfes are likewise prefixed to Shakspeare's Poems, 1640. MALONE.

7 This author publifhed a small volume of Epigrams in 1651. among which this poem in memory of Shakspeare is found.

MALONE.

4

To SHAKSPEARE.

Thy Mufe's fugred dainties feem to us Like the fam'd apples of old Tantalus: For we (admiring) fee and hear thy ftrains,

But none I fee or hear thofe fweets, attains.

To Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 9

Shakspeare, we must be filent in thy praife,
'Caufe our encomions will but blaft thy bays,
Which envy could not; that thou didft do well,
Let thine own hiftories prove thy chronicle. "

In remembrance of Mafter WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Ode.
I.

Beware, delighted poets, when you fing,
To welcome nature in the early fpring,

Your num'rous feet not tread
The banks of Avon; for each flow'r,
As it ne'er knew a fun or show'r,
Hangs there the penfive head. ·

II.

Each tree, whofe thick and fpreading growth hath
made

Rather a night beneath the boughs than shade,
Unwilling now to grow,

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

These verses are taken from Two Bookes' of Epigrammes and Epitaphs, by Thomas Bancroft, Lond. 1639. 4to.

9 From Wits Recreations, &c. 12mo. 1640.

HOLT WHITE.

STEEVENS.

III.

The piteous river wept itfelf away
Long fince alas! to fuch a fwift decay,
That reach the map, and look
river there can spy,
And, for a river, your mock'd eye
Will find a fhallow brook.

If

you a

WILLIAM D'AVENANT.

Part of Shirley's Prologue to The Sifters.

:

you

And if you leave us too, we cannot thrive, I'll promife neither play nor poet live Till come ye back think what do; you fee What audience we have what company To Shakspeare comes? whofe mirth did once beguile Dull hours, and bufkin'd, made even forrow fmile: So lovely were the wounds, that men would fay They could endure the bleeding a whole day.

See, my lov'd Britons, fee your Shakspeare rife, An awful ghoft, confefs'd to human eyes! Unnam'd, methinks, diftinguifh'd I had been From other fhades, by this eternal green, About whofe wreaths the vulgar poets ftrive, And with a touch their wither'd bays revive. Untaught, unpractis'd, in a barbarous age, I found not, but created firft the ftage: And if I drain'd no Greek or Latin ftore, 'Twas, that my own abundance gave me more: On foreign trade I needed not rely,

Like fruitful Britain rich without fupply.

Dryden's Prologue to his Alteration of Troilus and Creffida.

Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did firft impart To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonfon art: