VPON
THE DEATH OF
BENIAMIN IOHNSON.
Let thine owne Sylla (BEN) arise, and trye
To teach my thoughts an angry Extasie;
That I may fright Contempt, and with just darts
Of fury sticke thy Palsey in their Hearts;
But why doe I rescue thy Name from those
That only cast away their Eares in Prose;
Or, if some better Braine arrive so high,
To venture Rhimes, 'tis but Court-Balladry,
Singing thy death in such an uncouth Tone,
As it had beene an Execution.
What are his fauls [sic] (O Envy!) that you speake
English at Court, the learned Stage acts Greeke?
That Latine Hee reduc'd, and could command
That which your Shakespeare scarce could understand?
That hee expos'd you Zelots, to make knowne
Your prophanation; and not his owne?
That One of such a fervent Nose, should be
Pos'd by a Puppet in DIVINITIE?
Fame write 'em on his Tombe, and let him have
Their Accusations for an Epitaph:
Nor thinke it strange if such thy Scenes defie,
That erect Scaffolds 'gainst Authoritie.
Who now will plot to cozen Vice, and tell
The Tricke and Policie of doing well?
Others may please the Stage, His sacred Fire
Wise men did rather worship then admire:
His lines did relish mirth, but so severe;
That as they tickled, they did wound the Eare.
Well then, such Vertue cannot die, though Stones
Loaded with Epitaphs doe presse his Bones:
Hee lives to mee; spite of this Martyrdome:
BEN, is the selfe same POET in the Tombe.
You that can Aldermen new Wits create,
Know, JOHNSONS Sceleton is Laureate.

H. RAMSAY.

(I2v-I3r)