Under this sacred marble of thine own, TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE; AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. To draw no envy, SHAKESPEARE! 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! 'Tis true! and all men's suffrage! But these ways Were not the paths, I meant unto thy praise! For silliest Ignorance on these may light; Which, when it sounds at best, 's but Echo's right! I therefore will begin. Soul of the Age! The applause, delight, and wonder, of our Stage! My SHAKESPEARE, rise! I will not lodge 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 disproportioned, Muses: For, if I thought my judgement were of years, I should commit thee, surely, with thy peers! And tell, how far thou didst our LYLY outshine; Or sporting KYD, or MARLOW's mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek; PACCUVIUS, ACCIUS, him of Cordova dead, Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome, 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! Nature herself was proud of his designs; As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all! Thy Art, For a good Poet 's made, as well as born; Of SHAKESPEARE'S mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turnèd and true-fillèd lines! In each of which, he seems to Shake a Lance! 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! 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 And despairs day, but for thy Volume's light. A NYMPH'S PASSION. I LOVE, and He loves me again ; For if the Nymphs should know my Swain; Yet if it be not known; The pleasure is as good as none! For that 's a narrow joy, is but our own! I'll tell that, if they be not glad, It were a plague 'bove scorn! And yet it cannot be forborne, Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn! He is (if they can find him!) fair! That are, this morning, blown! Yet, yet, I doubt, He is not known; And fear much more, that more of him be shown! But He hath Eyes so round and bright, As make away my doubt! I'll tell no more! and yet I love, But so exempt from blame; As it would be, to each a fame! If love, or fear, would let me tell his name. THOUGH I am young, and cannot tell Either what DEATH, or LOVE, is well: Yet I have heard, They both bear darts; And both do aim at human hearts! |