After the rare Arch-Poet JOHNSON dy'd,
The Sock grew loathsome, and the Buskins pride,
Together with the Stages glory stood
Each like a poore and pitied widowhood.
The Cirque prophan'd was; and all postures rackt:
For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act.
Then temper flew from words; and men did squeake,
Looke red, and blow, and bluster, but not speake:
No Holy-Rage, or frantick-fires did stirre,
Of flash about the spacious Theater.
No clap of hands, or shout, or praises-proofe
Did crack the Play-house sides, or cleave her roofe.
Artlesse the Sceane was; and that monstrous sin
Of deep and arrant ignorance came in;
Such ignorance as theirs was, who once hist
At thy unequal'd Play, the Alchymist:
Oh fie upon 'em! Lastly too, all witt
In utter darkenes did, and still will sit
Sleeping the lucklesse Age out, till that she
Her Resurrection ha's again with Thee.

(sig. M7r)

Thou had'st the wreath before, now take the Tree;
That henceforth none be Laurel crown'd but Thee.

(sig. M7v)

When I a Verse shall make,
Know I have praid thee,
For old Religions sake,
Saint Ben to aide me.

Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my Lyrick.

Candles Ile give to thee,
And a new Altar;
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my Psalter.

(sig. R5r)

Here lies Jonson with the rest
Of the Poets; but the Best.
Reader, wod'st thou more have known?
Ask his Story, not this Stone.
That will speake what this can't tell
Of his glory. So farewell.

(sig. Z3v)

Ah Ben!
Say how or when
Shall we thy Guests
Meet at those Lyrick Feasts,
Made at the Sun,
The Dog, the Triple Tunne?
Where we such clusters had,
As made us nobly wild, not mad;
And yet each Verse of thine
Outdid the meate, outdid the frolick wine.

My Ben
Or come agen:
Or send to us,
Thy wits great over-plus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it;
Lest we that Tallent spend:
And having once brought to an end
That precious stock; the store
Of such a wit the world sho'd have no more.

(sig. Z3v)