[From Nicholas Oldisworth, A Letter to Ben Johnson.]
Jonson included the poem (with some variants, and two added lines) in what he called 'a packet of my own praises', sent to the Earl of Newcastle on 4 February 1632 (the letter and copies of poems in praise are Harley MS 4955 in the British Library). The Harley version is printed in Wit Restor'd in Several Select Poems not formerly Publish't (1658), pp. 79-81. In another poem in MS Don. C. 24 - quoted in H&S, 1, 113n - Oldisworth describes a visit to Jonson in Westminster on a journey from London to Southampton in 1632; Jonson, far from giving his visitors the flashes of fantastic wit they expect, talks of nothing but 'how Mankinde grew daily worse and worse, / How God was disregarded, How Men went / Downe even to Hell, and never did repent...'.
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Die Johnson: crosse not our Religion so,
As to bee thought immortall. Lett us know
Thou art a Man. Thy workes make us mistake
Thy person; and thy great Creations make
Us idol thee, and 'cause wee see thee doe
Eternall thynges, thinke Thee eternall too.
Restore us to our Faith, and die. Thy doome
Will doe as much good, as the Fall of Rome,
'Twill crush an Heresie: wee n'er must hope
For truth, till two bee gone, Thou and the Pope.
And though wee are in danger, by thy Fall
To loose our Witts, our Judgements (braines and all)
Wee are content thou shouldst besott us thus.
Better bee fooles, then superstitious.
Die: to what Ende should wee thee now adore?
There is not Scholarship to reach to more.
Our Language is refin'd: Professours doubt
Their Greek and Hebrew shall be both putt out;
And wee, that Latine studyed have so long,
Shall now dispute, and write, in Johnson's tongue.
Nay, courtiers yeeld: and every beauteous wench
Had rather speake thy English, then her French.
And for our Mater! Nature stands agast,
Wondring to see her strength thus best at last;
Invention stoppes her course, and bidds the world
Looke for noe more: shee hath already hurld
Her treasure all on one. Thou has out-done
So much our Wish and Expectation,
That were it not for Thee, wee scarce had known
Fancie it selfe could ere so farre have gone.
Give lit'rature (a while) Leave to admire
How shee gott so high: shee can gett noe higher.
Die: seemes it not enough thy Writings date
Is endlesse, but thine owne prolonged Fate
Must equall it? for shame, engross not Age,
But now, thy fifth Act's ended, leave the stage,
And lett us clappe. Wee know, the Stars, which doe
Give others one Life, give a Laureat two.
But thou, if thus thy Bodie long survives,
Hast two Eternities, and not two Lives.
Die, for thine owne sake. Seest thou not, thy Praise
Is shortned meerly by this length of dayes?
Men may talke this, and that: to part the strife,
If I may judge, thou hast noe fault, but life.
Cold authors please best. Mee thinks thy warm Breath
Casts a thick Mist before thy Worth; which, Death
Would quickly dissipate. If thou wouldst have
Thy baies to flourish, plant them on thy Grave.
Gold now is drosse, and Oracles are stuffe
With us: for why? thou art not low enough,
Wee still looke under thee: stoope, and submitt
Thy glorie to the Meanesse of our Witt.
The Rhodian colossus, ere it fell,
Could not bee scann'd nor measur'd halfe so well.
Art's length, Art's depth, Art's heighth can n'er bee found,
Till thou art prostrate layd upon the ground.
Learning noe farther than thy Life extends:
With thee beganne all Art, with Thee it endes.