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JUDICIOPYLIUM,GENIO SOCRATEM,ARTEMARONEM
TERRATEGIT,POPULUS MÆRIT, OLYMPUS HABET,

Stay Passenger why dost thou go so fast".
Read, if thou canst, whom envious Death has placd
Within this Monument; Shakespear, with whom
Quick Nature dyd, whofe Name doth deck the Tomb
Far more than Cost, since all that he has Writ
Leaves living Art, but Page to serve his Wit
Ob: An Dri 1616 Etat. Die 23.Apr

53.

VILLE DE LYON Biblioth. du Palais des Art

upward, headed, argent; and for his creft or cognifance, a falcon, or, with his wings displayed, ftanding on a wreathe of his colours, Supporting a Spear armed headed, or fieeled filver, fixed upon an helmet with mantles and taffels, as more plainly may appear depicted in this margent; and we have likewife impaled the fame with the ancient arms of the faid Arden of Wellingcote; fignifying thereby, that it may and fhall be lawful for the faid John Shakefpere, gent. to bear and use the fame fhield of arms, fingle or impaled, as aforefaid, during his natural life; and that it fhall be lawful for his children, iffue, and pofterity, lawfully begotten, to bear, use, and quarter, and show forth the fame, with their due differencies, in all lawful warlike feats and civil use or exercises, according to the laws of arms, and custom that to gentlemen belongeth, without let or interruption of any person or perfons, for use or bearing the fame. In witnefs and testimony whereof we have fubfcribed our names, and faften'd the feals of our offices. Given at the office of arms, London, the day of in the forty fecond year of the reign of our moft gracious fovereign lady Elizabeth, by the grace of god, queen of England, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. 1599.

There is also a manufcript in the herald's office, marked W. 2 p. 276; where notice is taken of this coat, and that the perfon to whom it was granted, had born magiftracy at Stratford upon

Avon.

f 2

ΤΟ

MEMORY of my beloved the AUTHOR,

MR WILLIAM

SHAKESPEAR;

T

And what he hath left us.

O draw no envy, Shakespear, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame :
While I confefs thy writings to be fuch,

;

As neither man, nor mufe can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's fuffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise :
For feelieft ignorance on thefe may light,
Which, when it founds at best, 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 praise,
And think to ruin, where it feem'd to raise.
These are, as fome infamous bawd, or whore,
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them; and, indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need:
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applaufe! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespear rife! 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 tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;
I mean, with great but difproportion'd muses :

For

For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I fhould commit thee furely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didft our Lily outfhine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.

And though thou hadft fmall Latin and lefs Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Æfchylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy bufkin tread,
And thake a fage: or, when thy focks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all, that infolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or fince did from their afhes 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, ftill were in their prime,
When like Apollo he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his defigns,
And joy'd to wear the dreffing of his lines!
Which were fo richly fpun, and woven fo fit,
As, fince, fhe will vouchfafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated, and deferted lie,

As they were not of nature's family.
Yet muft I not give nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespear, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion. And, that he
Who cafts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and ftrike the fecond heat
Upon the mufes' anvil; turn the fáme,

(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame;

Or

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