Vpon BEN. IOHNSON.

I see that wreath which doth the wearer arme
Gainst the quick stroakes of Thunder is no charme
To keepe off deaths pale dart: For (IOHNSON) then
Thou hadst beene number'd still with living men:
Times sythe had feard thy lawrell to invade,
Nor thee this Subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many Votaries that come
To offer up their Garlands at thy Tombe,
Whilst some more lofty Pens in their bright Verse,
(Like glorious Tapers flaming on thy Herse)
Shall light the dull and thankless World to see,
How great a maime it suffers, (wanting thee:)
Let not thy learned shadow scorne, that I
Pay meaner Rites unto thy Memory:
And since I nought can adde but in desire,
Restore some sparks which leapt from thine owne fire.

What ends soever other Quils invite,
I can protest, it was no itch to write,
Nor any vaine ambition to be read,
But merely love and justice to the dead,
Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring
These drops, as tribute throwne into that Spring,
To whose most rich and friutfull head we owe
The purest streames of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth; Thou taughtst the ruder Age,
To speake by Grammar; and reformd'st the Stage:
Thy Comick sock induc'd such purg'd sense,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongst those soaring Wits that did dilate
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thy self was one
Helpt lift it up to such proportion,
That thus refin'd and roab'd it shall not spare
With the full Greeke or Latine to compare.
For what Tongue ever durst, but Ours, translate
Great Tullies Eloquence, or Homers State?
Both which in their unblemisht lustre shine,
From Chapmans Pen, and from thy thy CATILINE.

All I would aske for thee, in recompence
Of thy successfull toyle, and times expence
Is onely this poore boone: That those who can
Perhaps read French, or talke Italian,
Or doe the lofty Spaniard affect,
(To shew their skill in forreigne dialect)
Prove not themselves so unnat'rally wise
They therefore should their Mother-tongue despise:
(As if her Poets both for stile and witt,
Not equal'd, or not pass'd their best that writt
Vntill by studying IOHNSON they have knowne
The height, and strength, and plenties of their owne.
Thus in what low earth, or neglected roome,
So ere thou sleepst, thy BOOKE shall be thy Tombe,
Thou wilt goe downe a happie Coarse, bestrew'd
With thine owne Flowres and feele thy self renew'd,
Whilst thy immortall, never with'ring Bayes
Shall yearely flourish in thy Readers praise.
And when more spreading Titles are forgot,
Or, spight of all their Lead and Seare-cloth rot;

Thou wrapt and shrin'd in thine owne sheets wilt lye
A Relique fam'd by all Posteritie.

HEN. KING

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