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Wees me at 400 great, a distance to take even the outlines of your perfections.

I would not therefore, where I cannot pre. sume to do justice, be thought to descend to the unbecoming art of Aattery: II must launch out, indeed, a great way; to make myself liable to that imputation, with regard to your Royal Highness; but Dedications are generally suspected of overftraining. ?l

How far so ever, MADAM, my vanity or iny ambition might millead me into that tract, I'll oblige myself to govern both my duty'; and turn all attempts of praise and compliment into veneration and pious wishes. That You may long con. tinue to bless the eyes and arms of the PRINCE, your Illuftrious Confort; and that you may continue to bless the nation with a

numerous succession of Princes, to the future glory and security of our establishment, is my ardent p

prayeri and

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+ An EPITAPH on the admirable

Dramatic Poet, W. SHAKESPEARE. W 7 HAT neede my Shakejpeare for his honour'd bones.

The labour of an age, in piled ftones ?
Or that his hatlow'd reliques should be hid
Under a starr-y-pointing pyramid ?
Deare fonne of memory, great heire of Fame,
What needst thou fuch dall witnesse of thy name :
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thy felfe a live-long munament:
For whilft to th” shame of flow.endevouring art.
Thy eafie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy ünvalued booke,
Those Delphicke lines, such deep'impreffion tooke :
Then thou, our fancy of her selfe bereaving,
Doft make us marble with too much conceiving :.
And, so sepulcherd, in such pompe doft lie,
That kings for such a tombe would wish to die.

J. MILTON + This Epitaph was written in 1630, wbon Milton was in his two. and twentierb year; for he was born in 1608.

In Remembrance of
Master WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

ODE.
Eware (delighted Poets !). when you fing

Your num'rous feet not tread
The banks of Avon ; for each flower
(As. ic ne'er knew a fun, or hower,).
Hangs, there, the pensive head,

II.
Each tree; whofe thick and spreading growth hath made
Rather, a night beneath the boughs, than hade,

(Unwilling

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(Unwiling now to grow,)...st" Looks like the plume a captain wearso: 9731192.** Whose rifled falls are steept i'th? tears us? fiu.ls.ro Which from his last rage flowers'ta!

III., The pitepas river. wept itself away,623 iudin, Long since (alas !) to such a swift decay, y1510

That reach the map and looks sain ... If you a river there can spyt i mot 28 516 gun's And, for a river, your mock'd eyes 9514 bluoda

Will find a Mallow brooke. "Euoti 103 inst: i) 20.00 W. DA VENANT.

sigo liw s079199010 ChNetimecineNeetiNUGAN

don't smo jon liv. I 1 On the. Effigies of SHAKESPEARE, prefix'd to bis printed Works uod

blovila ir bra that thou here seeft pused 9x boca It was for gentle Shakespeare cut in cui ont Wherein the had a strile With nature, to out-doo the life :

o nuoro I 104 o, could he but have drawn his wit jinou bigod's As well

15 wai liya to A writ'in braffe.

10

icots rigacDW. Eur,“ since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture, but his book,

B.J. od 910 a

HIS Rgure, the

TIS

the graver ha

All, that was even

b301

7903 To the Menory of my Beloved, the Author,

Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE;
- v81C? And what he hai; left us. 157579?
Worl otowi? 01

47 rigarunt
O drawno, envy (Shakesprare) on thy namt.
Am I 'thus ample to thy book, and

and fame;

20WH While I confess thy Feritings to be füch, 2. is die binnen * As neither man, nor mufe, can praise too much.

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And we have wits to to my b
And though thou hadha
Par poety
"Tis true, and all meas suffrage. But thefe waye
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For feeliest ignorance on thefe may light,
Which, when it founds at belt, but echoes right;
Or blind affetion, which idoch ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgerhall by chance
Or crafty malice mighe pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it feem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd, or whores i
Should praise a marond What could hort her more
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above th’All fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin.-Soul of the age !

The applaufe fadelighet the wonder of oor stage 1
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenfer, or bid Beaumont lie...!
A little further, to make thee, a room :
Thou art a monument without a temba
And art alive ftill, while thy book doth live,

and

praise to give.
That I nor mix thee brain excuses;
I mean with great, but disproportion'd mufes
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee, Turely, with thy peers:
And tell how far thou didnt our Lilly out-thine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.

small Latin and less Greek From thence to honour thee, I would not seek For names; but call forth thund'ring -£fobylus,

and Sophocles to us, To live again, to hear thy Buskin tread, "And take la fage? Or, when thy socks were on, "Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome

, Triumph, my Britain! thou haft: one to show, To whom all funes of Europe homage owes

s not of an age, but for all time! And all the mulet till were in their prime,

When's

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