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But could youth last, could love still breed,
Had joys no date, had age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Ben Jonson

1573-1637

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAK PEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US

(From First Folio edition of Shakespeare, 1623)

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 5 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these wa Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes righ Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 10 The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chanc Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.

15 But thou 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
20 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,

Thou art alive still while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 25 That I not mix thee so my brain excuses,

I mean with great but disproportioned 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,
30 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 thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

35 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 a comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
40 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,
45 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
50 As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
55 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 60 (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 to scorn;

For a good poet's made, as well as born.

65 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,
70 As brandished 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! 75 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 mourned like night,

80 And despairs day but for thy volume's light.

SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS

(From Epicone; or, The Silent Woman, Act I. sc. 1.,
1609-10)

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,

5 Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: 10 Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS

(From "A Celebration of Charis" in Underwoods, 1616)

See the chariot at hand here of Love,

Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

And well the car Love guideth.

5 As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;

And enamoured do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

10 Through swords, through seas, wither she would

ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
15 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;

20

And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touched it?

Have you marked but the fall o' the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it?

25 Have you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan's down ever?

30

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

O so white,-O so soft,-0 so sweet is she!

5

SONG.-TO CYNTHIA

(From Cynthia's Revels, Act V. sc. 3, 1600)

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep;

Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made
10 Heaven to clear, when day did close;
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal-shining quiver;

15 Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

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