To the Memory of BEN. IOHNSON.
As when the Vestall hearth went out, no fire
Lesse holy then the flame that did expire
Could kindle it againe: So at thy fall
Our Witt, great BEN, is too Apocryphall
To celebrate the losse, since tis too much
To write thy Epitaph, and not bee such.
What thou wert, like th' hard Oracles of old,
Without an extasie cannot bee told.
We must be ravish first, Thou must infuse
Thy selfe into us both the Theame and Muse.
Else, (though wee all conspir'd to make thy Herse
Our Workes) so that 'thad beene but one great Verse,
Though the Priest had translated for that time
The Liturgy, and buried thee in Rime,
So that in Meeter wee had heard it said,
Poetique dust is to Poetique laid:
And though that dust being Shakespears thou might'st have
Not his roome, but the Poet for thy grave;
So that, as thou didst Prince of Numbers dye
And live, so now thou mightst in Numbers lie,
'Twere fraile solemnitie; Verses on Thee
And not like thine, would but kind Libels be;
And we, (not speaking thy whole Worth) should raise
Worse blots, then they that envied thy praise.
Indeed, thou need'st us not, since above all
Invention, thou wert thine owne Funerall.
Hereafter, when Time hath fed on thy Tombe,
Th'inscription worne out, and the Marble dumbe;
So that 'twould pose a Critick to restore
Halfe words, and words expir'd so long before.
When thy maym'd Statue hath a sentenc'd face,
And lookes that are the horror of the place,
That 'twill be learning, and Antiquitie,
And aske a SELDEN to say, this was Thee,
Thou'lt have a whole Name still, nor needst thou feare
That will be ruin'd, or lose nose, or haire.
Let others write so thin, that they can't be
Authors till rotten, no Posteritie
Can adde to thy Workes; th'had their whole growth then
When first borne, and came aged from thy Pen.
Whilst living thou enjoy'dst the fame and sense
Of all that time gives but the reverence.
When th'art of Homers yeares, no man will say
Thy Poems are lesse worthy, but more gray:
Tis Bastard-Poetry, and o'th' false blood
Which can't without succession be good.
Things that will alwayes last, doe thus agree
With things eternall; th'at once perfect bee.
Scorne then their censures, who gav't out, thy Witt
As long upon a Comœdie did sit
As Elephants bring forth; and that thy blotts
And mendings tooke more time then Fortune plotts:
That such thy drought was, and so great thy thirst,
That all thy Playes were drawne at th' Mermaid first:
That the Kings yearely Butt wrote, and his Wine
Hath more right then thou to thy CATILINE.
Let such men keep a diet, let their witt
Be rackt, and while they write, suffer a fitt:
When th'have felt tortures which out-paine the gout,
Such, as with lesse, the State drawes treason out;
Though they should the length of consumption lie
Sicke of their verse, and of their Poem die,
'Twould not be thy worst Scœene, but would at last
Confirme their boastings, and shew made in hast.
He that writes well, writes quick, since the rule's true,
Nothing is slowly done, that's alwayes new.
So when thy FOXE had ten times acted beene,
Each day was first, but that 'twas cheaper scene.
And so thy ALCHYMIST plaid ore and ore,
Was new oth' Stage when 'twas not at the dore.
Wee, like the Actors did repeat, the Pit
The first time saw, the next conceiv'd thy Wit:
Which was cast in those forms, such rules, such Arts,
That but to some not halfe thy Acts were parts:
Since of some silken judgements we may say,
They fill'd a Boxe two houres, but saw no Play.
So that th'unlearned lost their money, and
Schollers sav'd onely, that could understand.
Thy Scœne was free from Monsters, no hard Plot
Call'd downe a God t'untie th'unlikely knot.
The Stage was still a Stage, two entrances
Were not two parts oth' World, disjoyn'd by Seas.
Thine were land-Tragedies, no Prince was found
To swim a whole Scœne out, then oth' Stage drown'd;
Pitch't fields, as Red-Bull wars, still felt thy doome,
Thou laidst no sieges to the Musique-Roome;
Nor wouldst allow thy best Comœdies
Humours that should above the People rise:
Yet was thy language and thy stile so high,
Thy Socke to th' ancle, Buskin reacht toth' thigh;
And both so chast, so 'bove Dramatick cleane,
That we both safely saw, and liv'd thy Scene.
No foule loose line did prostitute thy wit,
Thou wrot'st thy Comœdies, didst not commit.
We did the vice arraignd not tempting heare,
And were made Iudges, not bad parts byth' eare.
For thou ev'n sinne didst in such words array,
That some who came bad parts, went out good play.
Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the Age
Still acted, which grew innocent from th' Stage.
Tis true thou hadst some sharpnesse, but thy salt
Serv'd but with pleasure to reforme the fault.
Men were laugh'd into vertue, and none more
Hated Face acted then were such before.
So did thy sting no bloud, but humours draw,
So much doth Satyre more correct then Law;
Which was not nature in thee, as some call
Thy teeth, who say thy wit lay in thy Gall.
That thou didst quarrell first, and then, in spight,
Didst 'gainst a person of such vices write:
That 'twas revenge, not truth, that on the Stage
Carlo was not presented, but thy Rage:
And that when thou in company wert met,
Thy meate tooke notes, and thy discourse was net.
Wee know thy free-veine had this innocence,
To spare the partie, and to brand th' offence.
And the just indignation thou wert in
Did not expose Shift, but his tricks and ginne.
Thou mightst have us'd th, old Comick freedome, these
Might have seene themselves plaid, like Socrates.
Like Cleon, Mammon might the Knight have beene,
If, as Greeke Authors, thou hadst turn'd Greeke spleene;
And hadst not chosen rather to translate
Their learning into English, not their rate:
Indeed this last, if thou hadst beene bereft
Of thy humanitie, might be cal'd Theft.
The other was not; whatsoere was strange
Or borrow'd in thee did grow thine by th' change.
Who without Latine helps had'st beene as rare
As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shakespeare were:

And like them, from thy native Stock could'st say,
Poets and Kings are not borne every day.

(sigs. E3-F1r)