Upon the Death of Mr BEN. IOHNSON.
Tis not secure to be too learn'd, or good,
These are hard names, & now scarce understood:
Dull flagging soules with lower parts, may have
The vaine ostents of pride upon their Grave,
Cut with some faire Inscription, and true Crie,
That both the Man and Epitaph there lie!
Whilst those that soare above the Vulgar pitch,
And are not in their bagges, but studies rich,
Must fall without a line, and onely be
A Theme of wonder, not of Poetry.
He that dares praise the eminent, he must
Either be such, or but revile their dust!
And so must we (Great Genius of brave verse!)
With our iniurious zeale prophane thy Herse.
It is a taske above our skill, if we
Presume to mourne our owne dead Elegie;
Wherein, like Banckrupts in the stocke of Fame,
To patch our credit up, we use thy Name;
Or cunningly to make our drosse to passe,
Do set a jewell in a foile of brasse:
No, 'tis the glory of thy well-known Name,
To be eternis'd, not in verse, but Fame.
JOHNSON! that's weight enough to crowne thy stone:
And make the Marble piles to sweat and grone.
Under the heavy load! A Name shall stand
Fixt to thy Tombe, 'till times destroying hand
Crumble our dust together, and this All
Sinke to its Grave, at the great Funerall.
If some lesse learned age neglect thy pen,
Eclipse thy flames, and loose the Name of BEN,
In spight of ignorance thou must survive
In thy faire progeny, That shall revive
Thy scatter'd ashes in the skirts of death,
And to thy fainting Name give a new breath;
That twenty ages after, men shall say
(If the Worlds story reach so long a day,)
Pindar and Plautus with their double Quire
Have well translated BEN the English Lyre.
What sweets were in the Greek or Latine known,
A naturall Metaphor has made thine owne:
Their loftie language in thy Phrase so drest,
And neat conceits in our own tongue exprest,
That ages hence, Criticks shall question make
Whether the Greeks and Romanes English spake.
And though thy Phancies were too high for those
That but aspire to COCKEPIT-flight, or prose,
Though the fine Plush and Velvets of the age
Did oft for sixepence damne thee from the Stage,
And with their Mast and Achorne-stomachs, ran
To t'h nastie sweepings of thy Servingman,
Before thy Cates, and swore thy stronger food,
'Cause not by them digested, was not good;
These Moles thy scorne and pittie did but raise,
They were as fit to judge as we to praise.
Were all the choise of wit and language showne
In one brave Epitaph upon thy Stone,
Had learned Donne, Beaumont, and Randolph, all
Survived thy Fate, and sung thy Funerall,
Their Notes had been too lowe: Take this from mee --
None but thyselfcould write a verse for thee.

R. BRIDEOAKE,

A.M.N.
C.Oxon.

(sigs H2v-H3v)