TO THE MEMORY OF
him who never can be forgotten,
Master BENIAMIN
JOHNSON.
Had this bin for some meaner Poets Hearse,
I might have then observ'd the lawes of verse:
But here they faile, nor can I hope t'expresse
In Numbers, what the world grants Numberlesse;
Such are the Truths, we ought to speake of Thee,
Thou great refiner of our Poesie,
Who turn'st to gold that which before was lead;
Then with that pure Elixar rais'd the dead.
Nine Sisters who (for all the Poets lyes)
Had bin deem'd Mortall, did not JOHNSON rise
And with celestiall Sparkes (not stolne) revive
Those who could erst keep winged Fame alive:
T'was he that found (plac't) in the seat of wit,
Dull grinning Ignorance, and banish't it;
He on the prostituted Stage appeares
To make men heare, not by their eyes, but eares;
Who painted Vertues, that each one might know,
And point the man, that did such Treasure owe:
So that who could in JOHNSONS lines be high
Needed not Honours, or a Ribbon buy:
But vice he onely shew'd us in a glasse,
Which by reflection of those rayes that passe,
Retaines the figure lively, set before,
And that withdrawne, reflects at us no more;
So, he observ'd the like Decorum, when
He whipt the vices, and yet spar'd the men;
When heretofore, the vices onely note,
And signe from vertue as [sic] his party-coate,
When Devils were the last Men on the Stage,
And pray'd for plenty, and the present Age;
Nor was our English language, onely bound
To thanke him, for he Latin Horace found
(Who so inspir'd Rome, with his Lyricke song)
Translated in the Macaronicke toung,
Cloth'd in such raggs, as one might safely vow,
That his Mæcenas, would not owne him now;
On him he tooke this pitty, as to cloth
In words, and such expression, as for both,
Ther's none but judgeth the exchange will come
To twenty more, then when he sold at Rome.
Since then, he made our Language pure and good,
And teach us speake, but what we understood,
We owe this praise to him, that should we joyne
To pay him, he were payd but with the coyne
Himselfe hath minted, which we know by this
That no words passe for currant now, but his;
And though He in a blinder age could change
Faults to perfections, yet 'twas farre more strange
To see (how ever times, and fashions frame)
His wit and language still remaine the same
In all mens mouths; Grave Preachers did it use
As golden Pills, by which they might infuse
Their Heavenly Physicke; Ministers of State
Their grave dispatches in his language wrate;
Ladies made cur'tsies in them, Courtiers, legs,
Physicians Bills, perhaps some Pedant begs
He may not use it, for he heares 'tis such,
As in few words, a man may utter much.
Could I have spoken in his language too,
I had not said so much, as now I doe,
To whose cleare memory, 1 this tribute send
Who Dead's my wonder, Living was my Friend.

IOHN BEAUMONT,
Baronet

(sigs. C2-C3r)