An Offertory at the Tombe of the Famous Poet Ben: Iohnson
If Soules departed lately hence doe know
How we performe the duties that we owe
Their reliques? will it not grieve thy spirit
To see our dull devotion? thy merit
Prophan'd by disproportiond Rites? thy Herse
Rudely defil'd with Our unpolish'd Verse?
Necessitie's our best excuse; 'tis in
Our understanding, not our will wee sin;
'Gainst which 'tis now in vaine to labour, wee
Did knothing know, but what was taught by Thee,
The routed Souldiers when their Captaines fall
Forget all order, that men cannot call
It properly a Battaile that they fight;
Nor wee (Thou being dead) be said to write.
'Tis noise wee utter, nothing can be sung
By those distinctly that have lost their Tongue;
And therefore whatsoere the Subject be,
All Verses now become thy ELEGIE:
For, when a livelesse Poeme shall be read,
Th'afflicted Reader sighs, BEN: IONSON's dead.
This is thy glory, that no Pen can raise
A lasting Trophee in thy honour'd praise;
Since Fate (it seemes) would have it so exprest,
Each Muse should end with Thine, who was the best:
And but her flights were stronger and so high,
That Time's rude hand can not reach her glory,
And ignorance had spred this Age as great
As that which made thy learned MUSE so sweat,
And toyle to dissipate; untill (at length)
Purg'd by thy Art, it gain'd a lasting strength;
And now secur'd by thy all-powerfull Writt,
Can feare no more a like relapse of Witt:

Though to Our griefe) we ever must despaire,
That any Age can raise Thee up an Heyre.

IOHN VERNON

è societ: In: Temp.

(sig. E1)