Jonson, I call thee, come thou forth to justice,
I'm here to drag thee to the bar of Phœbus,
Guilty of stealing and of wicked thieving,
All the nine Muses sitting by in circle.
Know then that certain plays of wondrous beauty,
Which in the shade of an Elysian rose-bed,
Plautus most merry of the choir of poets
Lately composed, and to the gods recited
On starry seats, all sitting round to listen,
Moving to peals of laughter the Eternals,
And drawing smiles from Jupiter's grim visage.
Each pole of heaven thundering with applauses.
These plays, I say then - plays so wondrous clever,
Thou stolest basely while the gods were busy,
And now proceedest as thine own to vend them:
Jonson, to justice come thou forth - I call thee!
Lo, to defend thee, King and father Phoebus
Rises at once, O Jonson, and before all
Bears solemn witness that indeed thine own were
These famous plays, and that thou didst compose them,
Himself being privy to them and assisting.
Whence then, I pray, did Plautus having got them,
Read them aloud to Jove and the Eternals?
Lo, Maia's son and Atlas clever grandson,[i.e. Mercury - ed.]
Wings on his swift feet, on his fingers birdlime,
Mercury, sharp boy, and a very rascal,
Aught to conceal with merry theft and laughter;
As once before, when love of his own torches
He deftly stripped, and robbed him of his quiver,
So, lately (since he often is accustomed
With thee to play, and clap his hands, and crack jokes),
From thee he stole these scattered sheets of paper,
And bade them mount up with him to the Heavenlies.
Now, put to shame, I'm silent, thou dost conquer,
O Jonson, Phœbus being thy judge and patron! From Alexander B Grosart, Poems of the Rev. Charles Fitzgeoffrey, xxii-xxxiii.