Thomas Terrent on Jonson's controlled madness - Jonsonus Virbius 1638

On the death of Ben Jonson, easily the Prince of Poets. Into what crisis am I thrown? Into what kind of Office does timorous piety drag my trembling Muse? Miserable me, struck by bitter cold, and terrified by a huge shadow, I myself seem part of the funeral which I solemnize; I collapse under the gathered weight of fame, and the very heavy burden extinguishes the feeble fire. But I will not withdraw, for even if hope abandons such reckless deeds, I will stand forth, Jonson, the more potent witness of your praises: of the many men whom the ages know, you alone are the one worthy to express in poetry the praise of such a man, the eclipse of the Muses, and the fate of the dead Poet. Who does not know, Roman, of your triumphs in both kinds of Military (arms and letters), and the glory of the Laurel which soon followed the royal sceptre: Virgil was also a Caesar, and he had learnt not to endure a superior: he tarried by fate in the Augustan age, so that you, royal Rome, can vaunt of a Kingly Poet, and can admire you, Jonson, magnificent in your twinned Monarchy. Behold the Britains utterly sundered from the whole world, boasting the same gifts, and blest by the like Fortune; this age too has seen its own Virgil, who lived happy in the image of Caesar's sceptre, and swelled his own name with Roman song. And that you may see the way, and the long preparations to the summit; behold: the same lineage, the identical rank of poets. Who may deny that the song of Lucretius is uncultivated, the numbers of Ennius deformed, these the youthful offspring of the Latin Muses? In the same way, in the beginning, there arose the forerunners of ourselves, the playthings of Chaucer, and the rough things of the tribe of his followers; this divine scheme is little suited to a newborn kingdom, so it had to be kept safe for our time, and it was fitting that the Gods rehearsed the struggles of this famous age; I will neither be silent about the twin poets, nor about you, Shakespeare, and whatever the wisdom of sacred Fate has thrown together in our own age: go on through the later grandsons, illustrious of mind, and let brighter fame always fish out lesser names; but, Gods, spare me, if greater things call, if a more sacred page compels me. The grace belongs to all of you, and the charm of the native muse, which drags on and holds back, which at one moment joyfully relaxes me, then sweeps me to the height of rapture, and inspires me as I read. But how do I memorialize you, God among poets! O new glory of mankind and Muse swelling with hitherto unknown tragic grandeur! How greatly does he confirm his powers, how strongly rising up with hearty vigour he sweeps in and draws out the spirit: he does not heedlessly approve that which is ready at hand (which is the fashion of the multitude), and pours out great things with happy wit alone. He fixes on the beat, but (an artful and wise late-comer) he scatters the things that went before him, and with careful step he is supported across steep paths, and at last he unleashes these pent-up feelings with powerful lightning. Here, I pray, let whoever approach, whose own Muse summons him to poetic metre, burning with first fire; one who swelling with the novelty of a not-yet-cultivated wit, is swept up into song, not heedful of convention or the law; but who will be able to endure the shipwreck of unfettered genius and the ruin of the mind? How much more honourable is he who reigns amidst the wave, seized by no whirlpool: for whom vast spirit does not conquer art: but truly in the midst of poetical frenzy, this master subdues the violent muse with insane divine will, and hammers out the metre with restrained fury. When he turned to your madness and habits of conduct, Catiline, what kind of things does he struggle with; with what sort of high style does he rave like Bacchus? Behold the bellowing of the mouth, the divine furies and the inimitable thunderbolt of the conspiring Prophetess! O true work of Cicero, breathing forth the judicial record in eloquent language: O eternal word of Cato, disclosing the Caesarean fraud, and calling back the Patricians who sought their execution, and the certain funerals of the guilty: who may set right, by speaking, the accustomed things of the first public procession, and win the zeal and applause of the packed Theatre? Neither you, renowned Cicero, leader of the divine deed, nor you, unharmed Rome, has seen mightier triumphs. You stride forth in our land's tragic robes, Sejanus, higher than the Romans or your fate ever bore you: and from this pinnacle you have tumbled down in a more remarkable fall and famous ruin, and the examples of the Theatre terrify more deeply. But you, on the contrary, stand, a poet on a pinnacle never to be cast down, looking down on the winds, and the false god of Friendship, safe in your honour, and in the amplitude of your begotten fame. Had a verbose and vain letter come from abundant Capri, you, a greater man, would have taken delight in the incensed Thunderer Tiberius, if you had thus i.e., like Jonson grown strong, Sejanus, if you had thus stood firm. O fortunate one, who followed you, Jonson; he weaved his own threads, and is the Author of his own Name.

The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Ben Jonson

Thomas Terrent on Jonson's controlled madness - Jonsonus Virbius 1638

Literary Record 70