AN ELEGIE ON
BEN IOHNSON.

I dare not, learned Shade, bedew thy Hearse
With teares, unlesse that impudence in Verse
Would cease to be a sinne; and what were crime
In Prose, would be no injurie in Rime.
My thoughts are so below, I feare to act
A sinne, like their black envie, who detract;
As oft as I would character in speech
That worth, which silent wonder scarce can reach.
Yet, I that but pretend to learning, owe
So much to thy great fame, I ought to shew
My weakenesse in thy praise; to thus approve,
Although it be lesse wit, is greater love:
'Tis all our phancie aims at; and our tongues
At best, will guiltie prove of friendly wrongs.
For, who would image out thy worth, great BEN,
Should first be, what he praises; and his Pen
Thy active braines should feed, which we can't have,
Unlesse we could redeeme Thee from the Grave.
The onely way that's left now, is to looke
Into thy Papers, to reade o're thy Booke;
And then remove thy phancies, there doth lye
Some judgement, where we cannot make, t'apply
Our reading: some, perhaps, may call this wit,
And thinke, we doe not steale, but onely fit
Thee to thy selfe, of all thy Marble weares,
Nothing is truly ours, except the teares.
0 could we weepe like Thee! we might convay
New breath, and raise men from their Beds of Clay
Unto a life of fame; he is not dead,
Who by thy Muses hath beene buried.
Thrice happy those brave Heroes, whom I meet
Wrapt in thy writings, as their winding-sheet:
For, when tribute unto Nature due,
Was payd, they did receive new life from you;
Which shall not be undated, since thy breath
Is able to immortall, after death.
Thus rescu'd from the dust, they did ne're see
True life, untill they were entomb'd by Thee.

You that pretend to Courtship, here admire
Those pure and active flames, Love did inspire:
And though he could have tooke his Mistresse eares,
Beyond fain'd sighs, false oaths, and forced teares;
His heat was still so modest, it might warme,
But doe the Cloystred Votarie no harme.
The face he sometimes praises, but the mind,
A fairer Saint, is in his Verse inshrin'd.

He that would worthily set downe his prayse,
Should studie Lines as loftie as his Playes.
The Roman Worthies did not seeme to fight
With braver spirit, then we see him write:
His Pen their valour equals; and that Age
Receives a greater glory from our Stage.
Bold Catiline, at once Romes hate and feare,
Farre higher in his storie doth appeare:
The flames those active Furies did inspire,
Ambition and Revenge, his better fire
Kindles afresh; thus lighted, they shall burne,
Till Rome to its first nothing doe returne.
Brave fall, had but the cause beene likewise good!
Had he so, for his Countrey, lost his blood!

Some like not Tully in his owne; yet while
All doe admire him in thy English stile,
I censure not; I rather thinke, that wee
May well his equall, thine we ne're shall see.

DUDLY DIGGS.

(sigs. D3v-4)