life fets me at too great, a distance, to take even the outlines of your perfections. I would not therefore, where I canno prefume to do justice, be thought to defcend to the unbecoming art of flattery. I must launch out, indeed, a great way, to make myfelf liable to that imputation, with regards to your Royal Highness; but Dedications are generally fufpected of overstraining.

How far fo ever, MADAM, my vanity or my ambition might mislead me into that tract, I'll oblige myfelf to govern both my duty; and turn all attempts of praife and compliment into veneration and pious wishes. That You may long con tinue to blefs the eyes and arms of the PRINCE, your Illuftrious Confort; and that you may continue to blefs the nation with a numerous fucceffion of Princes, to the future glory and fecurity of our eftablishment, is my ardent prayer; and A 4

in

in that I will center the only merit, by which I would pretend to profefs myself,

no, b'tionen 2d 167 cooysend2 vm shosu TAH soft hetig at 995 as to uodsi ɔdT

A

[x]

+ An EPITAPH on the admirable Dramatic Poet, W. SHAKESPEARE..

WH

HAT neede my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones
The labour of an age, in piled stones?
Or that his hallow'd reliques fhould be hid
Under a ftarr-y-pointing pyramid?

Deare fonne of memory, great heire of Fame,
What needft thou fuch dall witneffe of thy name ?
Thou in our wonder and aftonishment

Haft built thy felfe a live-long monument:
For whil'ft to th' fhame of flow-endevouring art.
Thy eafie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued booke,
Thofe Delphicke lines, fuch deep impreffion tooke:
Then thou, our fancy of her felfe bereaving,
Doft make us marble with too much conceiving
And, fo fepulcher'd, in fuch pompe dost lie,
That kings for fuch a tombe would wish to die.

a

J. MILTON

This Epitaph was written in 1630, when Milton was in his two. and twentieth year; for he was born in 1608.

In Remembrance of

Mafter WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

BE

O D E.

Eware (delighted Poets!) when you fing
To welcome nature in the early spring,
Your num❜rous feet not tread

The banks of Avon; for each flower

(As it ne'er knew a fun, or fhower,)

Hangs, there, the penfive head.

II.

Each tree, whofe thick and fpreading growth hath made Rather, a night beneath the boughs, than fhade,

A: 5

(Unwilling

[x]

(Unwilling now to grow,) is bad d Looks like the plume a captain wears, Whofe rifled falls are steept i'th tears

Which from his laft rage flow oil #

The piteoas river wept itself away, and dawna an", Long fince (alas!) to fuch a fwift decay, to 10 That reach the map, and lookos dains TLA If you a river there cam fpyrastal amol es sie dom And, for a river, your mock'd eye shisty blonde Will find a shallow brooke.og se podi tug Som på: 10 .moda do W. DAVENANT, ga oda to back unigod liiw stotenom I

On the Effigies of SHAKESPEARE prefix'd to his printed Works, on

THIS gure, that thou here feest put, ba gentle Shakespeare cut im 100 i dT

Wherein the graver had a
as for
had a ftrife
With nature, to out-doo the life;

O, could he but have drawn his wat binod 4 As well in brafs, as he hath hit od is wod list to A Itis face; the print would then furpaffe in braffe.

All, that was ever en furpat ganson? 10

But, fince he cannot, reader, look

Not on his picture, but his book.

B. J.

To the Memory of my Beloved, the Author, Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE',

como And what he hath left us, also inc2

O draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name. I Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame. While I confefs thy writings to be fuch, of de bu • As neither man, nor mufe, can praise too much.

'Tis true, and all mens fuffrage. But thefe ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praife?
For feelieft ignorance on thefe may light,

Which, when it founds at belt, 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 praife,
And think to ruin, where it feem'd to raise.
These are, as fome infamous bawd, or whare,
Should praise a maron. What could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin.-Soul of the age!
The applaufe delight! the wonder of our fage
My Shakespeare, rife! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenfer, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument & without a tomb.
And art alive ftill, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praife to give.
That I not mix thee fo, my brain excufes;
I mean with great, but difproportion'd mufes
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I fhould commit thee, furely, with thy peers:
And tell how far thou didst our Lilly out-thine,
Or fporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadit small Latin and lefs Greek,,
From thence to honour thee, I would not feek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Efchylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Accue of Cordova dead,

1.

To live again, to hear thy Bufkin tread,.
And shake a sage. Or, when thy locks were on,
"Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all, that infolent Greece, or haughty Rome.
Sent forth, or fince did from their afhes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou haft one to show,.
To whom all fenes of Europe homage owe
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the mules fill were in their prime

When