On Mr. BEN. IOHNSON.
Poet of Princes, Prince of Poets (wee
If to Apollo well may pray, to thee.)
Give Glo-wormes leave to peepe, who till thy Night
Could not be seene, we darkened were with light.
For Starres t'appeare after the fall o'th' Sun,
Is at the least modest presumption.
I've seene a great Lamp lighted by the small
Sparke of a Flint, found in a Field or Wall.
Our thinner verse faintly may shaddow forth
A dull reflexion of thy glorious worth;
And (like a Statue homely fashion'd) raise
Some Trophies to thy Mem'rie, though not Praise.
Those shallow Sirs, who want sharpe sight to look
On the Majestique splendour of thy Booke.
That rather choose to heare an Archy's prate,
Then the full sence of a learn'd Laureate,
May when they see thy Name thus plainly writ,
Admire the solemne measures of thy wit,
And like thy Workes beyond a gawdy Showe
Of Boards and Canvas, wrought by INIGO.
Plough-men who puzzled are with Figures, come
By Tallies to the reckning of a Summe.
And Milk-sop Heires, which from their Mothers Lappe
Scarce travaild, know farre Countries by a Mappe.
Shakespeare may make griefie merry, Beaumonts stile
Ravish and melt anger into a smile;
In winter nights, or after meales they be,
I must confesse very good companie:
But thou exact'st our best houres industrie;
Wee may read them; we ought to studie thee:
Thy Scœnes are precepts, every verse doth give
Counsell, and teach us not to laugh, but live.

You that with towring thoughts presume so high,
(Sweld with a vaine ambitious Timpanie)
To dreame on scepters, whose brave mischiefe cals
The blood of Kings to their last Funeralls:
Learne from Seianus his high fall, to prove
To thy dread Soveraigne a sacred love,
Let him suggest a reverend feare to thee,
And may his Tragedy, Thy Lecture bee.
Learne the compendious Age of slippery Power
That's built on blood; and may one little houre
Teach thy bold rashnesse that it is not safe
To build a Kingdome on a Cæsars grave.
Thy Playes were whipt and libel'd, only 'cause
Th'are good, and savour of our Kingdomes Lawes;
HISTRIO-MASTIX (lightning like) doth wound
Those things alone that solid are and sound.
Thus guiltie Men hate justice; so a glasse
Is sometimes broke for shewing a foule Face.
There's none that wish Thee Rods instead of Bayes,
But such, whose very hate adds to thy Praise.
Let Scriblers (that write Post, and versifie
With no more leasure then wee cast a Die)
Spurre on their Pegasus, and proudly crie,
This Verse I made ith' twirickling of an eye.
Thou couldst have done so, hadst thou thought it fit;
But 'twas the wisedome of thy Muse to sit
And weigh each syllable; suffering nought to passe
But what could be no better then it was.
Those that keepe pompous State nere goe in hast;
Thou went'st before them all, though not so fast.
While their poore Cobweb-stuffe finds as quick Fate
As Birth, and sells like Almanacks out of date;
The marble Glory of thy labour'd Rhime
Shall live beyond the Calendar of Time.
Who will their Meteors 'bove thy Sun advance?
Thine are the Works of judgement, theirs of chance.
How this whole Kingdome's in thy debt! wee have
From others Perewigs and Paints, to save
Our ruin'd Sculls and Faces; but to Thee
We owe our Tongues, and Fancies remedie.
Thy Poems make us Poets; wee may lacke
(Reading thy BOOKE) stolne sentences and Sack.
Hee that can but one speech of thine reherse,
Whether hee will or no, must make a Verse.
Thus Trees give _fruit, the kernels of that Fruit,
Doe bring forth Trees, which in more branches shoot.
Our canting ENGLISH (of it selfe alone)
(I had almost said a Confusion)
Is now all harmony; what we did say
Before was tuning only, this is Play.
Strangers, who cannot reach thy sense, will throng
To heare us speake the Accents of thy Tongue
As unto Birds that sing, ift be so good
When heard alone, what is't when understood!
Thou shalt be read as Classick Authors; and
As Greeke and Latine taught in every Land.
The cringing Mounsieur shall thy Language vent,
When he would melt his Wench with Complement.
Using thy Phrases he may have his wish
Of a coy Nun, without an angry Pish.
And yet in all thy POEMS there is showne
Such Chastitie, that every Line's a Zone.
Rome will confesse that thou makst Cæsar talke
In greater state and pompe then he could walke.
Catilines tongue is the true edge of swords,
We now not onely heare, but feele his words.
Who Tully in thy Idiome understands
Will sweare that his Orations are commands.
But that which could with richer Language dresse
The highest sense, cannot thy Worth expresse..
Had I thy owne Invention (which affords
'Words above Action, matter above words')
To crowne thy Merits, 1 should only bee
Sumptuously poore, low in Hyperbole.

RICHARD WEST.

(sigs. H4-I1v)