On the death of Ben Jonson.
We do not thus sink down: some have ears only
For your sovereignty, Libitina [Roman goddess of funerals]; the more celestial train follows
Those of the heavens, and soars over the middle airs,
And as the light penetrates the thick clouds
So the austere clarity of your wit flashes forth, one more fortunate,
Than all who have driven the Lamp of dawn for Phoebus.
We have kindled torches in his service, and to the severe shades,
Because we give him another life, we consign him.
Thus the head of the Thracian poet, after its neck had been severed,
Murmurs musically I know not what in the rapid Hebrus,
When the sun strikes the statue of Memnon, the little chord whines,
And gives forth magical measures, and breathes light airs:
If you brandish the changeable bridle of the grandiloquent Theatre,
Behold how the public voice applauds you with its twin hands;
Or if it delights you, Jonson, to gather wandering voices in Poetic metres
With the Maeonian lyre, the reclined union of lovers
Pursues you, in the learned likeness of poets.
You make a sign to Benjamin once with the fivefold scent
Of the rich table, and a densely packed plate, but You
Exceed others by more than a thousand-fold,
And you heap up an offering to greater feasts, from your own dowry.