TO THE MEMORY OF
M. BENJAMIN. JONSON.
To presse into the throng, where Wits thus strive
To make thy Lawrels fading Tombes survive,
Argues thy worth, their love, my bold desire,
Somewhat to sing, though but to fill the Quire:
But (Truth to speake) what Muse can silent be,
Or little say, that hath for Subject, Thee,
Whose Poems such, that as the Sphere of fire,
They warme insensibly, and Force inspire,
Knowledge, and wit infuse, mute tongues unlose,
And wayes not track't to write, and speake disclose.
But when thou putst thy Tragique Buskin on,
Or Comique Socke of mirthfull Action,
Actors, as if inspired from thy hand,
Speake, beyond what they thinke, lesse, understand.
And thirsty Hearers wonder-strucken say,
Thy words make that a Truth, was meant a Play.
Folly, and braine-sicke Humours of the time,
Distempered Passion, audacious Crime,
Thy Pen so on the stage doth personate,
That ere men scarce begin to know, they hate
The Vice presented, and there lessons learne,
Virtue, from vicious Habits to discerne.
Oft have I seene Thee in a sprightly straine,
To lash a Vice, and yet no one complaine,
Thou threw'st the Inke of Malice from Thy Pen,
Whose aime was evill manners, not ill men.
Let then fraile parts repose, where solemne care
Of pious Friends, thee Pyramids prepare;
And take thou (BEN) from Verse a second breath,
Which shall create Thee new, and conquer Death.

(sigs. C3v-C4r)

Sr. THO. HAWKINS.