BARTON HOLYDAY, to BEN JONSON. EPODE
Tis dangerous to praise; besides the taske,
Which to do't well, will aske
An age of time and judgement; who can then
Be prais'd, and by what pen?
Yet, I know both, whilst thee I safely chuse
My subject, and my Muse.
For sure, henceforth our Poets shall implore
Thy aid, which lends them more,
Then call their tyr'd Apollo, or the nine
She wits, or mighty wine.
These Deities are banquerupts, and must be
Glad to beg art of thee.
Some they might once perchance on thee bestow:
But, now, to thee they owe:
Who dost in daily bounty more wit spend,
Then they could ever lend.
Thus thou, didst build the globe, which, but for thee,
Should want its Axle-tree:
And, like a carefull founder, thou dost now
Leave Rules for ever, how
To keep't in reparations, which will doe
More good, than to build two.
It was an able stock, thou gav'st before:
Yet, loe, a richer store!
Which doth, by a prevention, make us quit
With a deare yeare of wit:
Come when it will, by this thy name shall last
Untill Fames utmost blast.
Thou art a wealthy Epigram, which spends
Most vigour when it ends.
This ful Epiphomena of thy best
Wit, out-speaks all the rest.
Me thinkes, I see our after Nephewes gaze,
And all their time to praise
Is taken up in wonder; whilst they see
Ages of wit, in thee
Collected, and well judg'd: Charons stout heart
Feeles thy new power of Art,
And, his obedient armes labour amaine,
Whilst he wafts back againe
What Poets shadow, thou dost please to call
To this thy judgement hall:
Whiles, at these frightning Sessions, thou dost sit,
The searching Judge of wit,
O how the Ghosts do shuffle one behind
Another, lest thou find
Them, and their errours: but, in value, they flie
Thy persecuting eye.
Bold Aristophanes, shrewd whorson, now
More feares thy threatning brow,
Then his owne guilt of libelling, and prayes
He may new write his playes.
Plautus so quakes, that he had rather still
Grind on in his old mill.
Terence would borrow his owne Eunuchs shape,
By the disguise to scape.
The Greek Tragoedians droop, as if they plaid
The persons whom they made:
Fearing thou'lt bid them adde with more expence
Of braine, wit to their sence:
Or whilst their murdered wits thou maist contemne,
Write Tragoedies of them.
Seneca, would with Hercules be glad
To scape, by running mad:
Or at the least, he feares as lesse a hurt,
To weare his burning shirt.
They'd all take care, and if thy Flaccus too
Writ now, he'd write all new.
Yet all at once confesse Flaccus doe's well,
But thou makst him excell.
The Morning Sunne viewing a silver stream,
So guilds it with his beame.
Master of Art, and Fame! who here makst knowne
To all, how all thine owne
Well-bodied works were fram'd, whilst here we see
Their fine Anatomee.
Each nerve and vaine of Art, each slender string,
Thou to our eye dost bring:
Thus, what thou didst before so well collect,
Thou dost as well dissect.
For which skill, Poems now thy censure wait,
And thence receive their Fate.
Thou needst not seek for them, to thee they're brought,
And so held good, or nought.
Thus, doth the eye disdaine, with an extreame
Scorne to send forth a beame:
But scaly formes from the glad object flow
By which the eye doth know
Its subtle image: thus the eye keeps state,
Thus doth the object wait.
But here, at this, perchance some one stands by,
And drawes his mouth awry;
As if his mouth (his mouth he doth so teare)
Would whisper in his eare;
When thy soft pitty, if it see his spight,
But saies, set your mouth right.
Yet in mild truth, this worke hath some defect,
As now I dare object:
Thou err'st against a workmans rarest part,
Which is to hide his Art.
Next, all thy rules fall short, since none can teach
A verse, thy worth to reach.
For which, Ile now judge thee: know thy estate
Of wit must beare this fate:
Till Jonson teach some Muse a straine yet new
Jonson shall want his due.

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