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Queen that has sat on the English throne; and therefore, I hope, is entitled to your Royal Highness's smiles over his urn.

Could I picture out his character equal to its merits, the world would foon difcover a sort of parallel betwixt the Poet and his Patroness. His excellencies were as great, as they were various; his beauties strong, and all native; the frame of his mind as sweet and candid, as his countenance was open and engaging; and his fentiments as chaste, as his conceptions were noble: He knew how to charm without affectation; and had the wondrous force of preserving all hearts, that once felt the influence of his attractions.

After what I have said, MADAM, I am afraid the duty of this address should be misconftrued a panegyrick on your Royal Highness. But I have professid myself unequal to the task of drawing his portraiture, and my humble sphere in

life sets meat too great a distance to take even the outlines of your perfections. I would not therefore, where I cannot prefumeto do justice, be thought to descend to the unbecoming art of flattery. I must launch out, indeed, a great way, to make inyself liable to that imputation, with regard to your Royal Highness; but Dedications are generally suspected of overstraining.

How far soever, MADAM, my vanity or my ambition might mislead me into that tract, I'll oblige myself to govern both by duty; and turn all attempts of praise and compliment into veneration and pious wishes. That You may long continue to bless the eyes and arms of the PRINCE, your Illustrious 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

prayer

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prayer ; and in that I will center the only merit, by which I would pretend to profess myself,

M A D A M,

Your ROYAL HIGHNESS'S

Moft dutiful and most obedient,

humble fervant,

LEW. THEOBALD.

An

An EPITAPH on the admirable

Dramatic Poet, W. SHAKESPEARE. W

HAT neede my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones

The labour of an age, in piled ftones ?
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a ftarr-y-pointing pyramid?
Deare fonne of memory, great heire of Fame,
Whát needit thou such dull witnesse of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thy felfe a live-long monument:
For whil't to th’ shame of flow-endevouring art
Thy eafie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued booke,
Those Delphicke lines, such deep impression tooke:
Then thou, our fancy of her felfe bereaving,
Doft make us marble with too much conceiving:
And, fo fepulcher'd, in such pompe dost lie,
That kings for such a tombe would wish to die.

J. MILTON.' † This Epitaph was written in 1630, when Milton was in his two and twentieth year; for he was born in 1608. 要要要 24uS tus us us us us at us at ur

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In Remembrance of
Master WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,

OD E.
Eware (delighted Poets !) when you fing
To welcome nature in the early spring,

Your num'rous feet not tread
The banks of Avon; foreach flower
(As it ne'er knew a sun, or shower,)
Hangs, there, the penfive head.

U.
Each tree, whose thick and spreading growth hath made
Rather a night beneath the boughs, than fhade,

A 5

(Unwilling

(Unwilling now to grow, Looks like the plume a captain wears, Whose rifed falls are steept i'th'tears Which from his last

rage

flow.

III.
The piteous river wept itself away,
Long since (alas !) to such a swift decay,

That reach the map, and look
If you a river there can spy :
And, for a river, your mock'd eye
Will find a shallow brooke.

W. DAVRNÁNT,

On the Effigies of SHAKESPEARE, prefixed to his printed Works.

put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;
Wherein the graver had a strife
With nature, to out-doo the life :
O, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brasfe, as he hath hit
His face"; the print would then furpafto
All, that was ever writ in braffe.
But, fince he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.

B.

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

And what he hath left us.
O draw no envy (Shakespeare, on thy name

Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame :
While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man, nur muse, can praise too much.

T

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