(As it ne'er knew a Sun, or Shower,)

Hangs, there, the penfive Head.

II.

Each Tree, whofe thick and spreading Growth bath made

Rather a Night beneath the Boughs, than Shade,
(Unwilling now to grow,)

Looks like the Plume a Captain weares,
Whofe rifled Falls are freept i'th' Teares
Which from bis laft Rage flow.
III.

The piteous River wept it self away,
Long fince (alas!) to fuch a swift decay,
That reach the Map, and look

If you a River there can fpie:

And, for a River, your mock'd Eye

Will find a fhallow Brooke.

W. DAVENANT.

On the Effigies of SHAKESPEARE, prefix'd to his printed Works.

HIS Figure, that thou here seeft put,

THIS

It was for gentle Shakespeare cuts

Wherein the Graver had a Strife
With Nature, to out-doo the Life:
O, could be but bave drawne bis Wit
As well in Braffe, as he bath bit.
His Face; the Print would then surpasse
All, that was ever writ in Braffe.
But, fince he cannot, Reader, looke
Not on bis Picture, but his Booke.

B. J.

To the Memory of my Beloved, the Author,
Mr. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE;}

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And What he hath left us.

chak drew L
dhurov gush at a 151

To drar no Envy (

to thy Book, and Fame: While I confefs thy Writings to be fuch,

"Am Ithus Shakespeare) on thy Name,

ay,

20013

As neither Man, nor Mule, can praise too much. 'Tis true, true, and all mens fuffrage. But thefe wayes Were not the paths I meant unto thy Praife: For feelieft Ignorance on these may light, Which, when it founds at beft, but echoes right Or blind Affection, which doth ne'er advance. The Truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance Or crafty Malice might pretend this Praife, And think to ruine, where it seem'd to rate brea These are as some infamous Baud, or Whore, Should praife & Matron. What could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and, indeed ovehill Fortune of them, or the Need. therefore will begin. Soul of the Act no Age! Th' applause! delight be wonder of our Stage! My Shakespeare, rife / I will not lodge thee by. Chaucer Spenfer, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room II_K9yr Thou art a Monument without a Tomb. And art alive fill, while thy Book doth live, And we have Wits to read, and Praife to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excufes ; I mean with great, but difproportion'd Muses

I

.1.8

ST

For if I thought my Judgment were of Years,.
I fhould commit thee, furely, with thy Peers:
And tell how far thou didst our Lilly out-fbine,
Or fporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty Line.

And though thou hadst fmall Latin and lefs Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not feek
For Names; but call forth thund'ring Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,

To live again, to hear thy Buskin tread,

And bake a Stage: Or, when thy Socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the Comparison

Of all, that infolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or fince did from their Afbes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou haft one to show,
To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe..
He was not of an Age, but for all time!
And all the Mufes fill were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our Ears, or like a Mercury to charm.
Nature her felf was proud of his defignes,
And joy'd to wear the dreffing of his Lines:
Which were fo richly Spun, and wove so fit,
As, fince, fhe will vouchsafe no other Wit.
The merry Greek, tart Ariftophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated, and deferted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: Thy Art,
My gentle Shakespeare, muft enjoy a part.
For though the Poet's matter Nature be,
His Art doth give the Fafhion: And, that he,

Whe

Who cafts to write a living Line, muft fweat,
(Such as thine are) and ftrike the Second Heat
Upon the Mufes Anvile; turn the fame,
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame,
Or for the Laurel he may gain a Scorn;
For a good Poet's made, as well as born.
And fuch wert thou. Look how the Father's Face
Lives in his Iffue, even fo the Race

Of Shakespeare's Mind and Manners brightly fhines
In bis well-torned, and true-filed Lines:

In each of which be feems to shake a Lance,
As brandish'd at the Eyes of Ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a fight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make thofe flights upon the Banks of Thames,
That fo did take Eliza and our James!

But ftay, I fee thee in the Hemifphere
Advanc'd, and made a Conftellation there!
Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets! and with Rage,
Or Influence, chide, or chear, the drooping Stage:
Which, fince thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like

night,

And defpairs day, but for thy Volume's light.

The Names of the SUBSCRIBERS.

His ROYAL HIGHNESS, the PRINCE of WALES.

Her ROYAL HIGHNESS, the PRINCESS ROYAL.

A.

His Grace the Duke of Argyle and Greenwich, Royal Paper.

Right Honourable the Marchioness of Annandale. Philip Aynscombe, Efq;

William Archer, Efq;

William Arnold, Efqs

Edward Afh, Efq;

John Auften, Efq;

Robert Andrews, Efq;

Reverend Mr. George Adams.

B.

His Grace the Duke of Bedford, Royal Paper.
Her Grace the Dutchess of Bedford, Royal Paper
Her Grace the Dutchess of Buckinghamshire,
Royal Paper.

Right Honourable Earl of Buchan.
Honourable Colonel Berkley.

Mr. Alderman Barber.

Thomas Bladen, Efq; Royal Paper.

Hawly Bishop, Efq; Royal Paper.
Samuel Burroughs, Efq;

John Baber, Efq;

William Bedingfield, Efq;

Anthony Brucer, Efq;

Ballard Beckford, Efq;

Richard Backwell, Efq; Royal Paper.

Edward