Had Rome but heard her worthies speak so high,
As thou hast taught them in thy Poesie ;'
She would have sent her poets to obtain,
(Tutour'd by thee) thy most majestique strain.
8. To Mr. George Chapman on his Translation of Homer's works into English meeter.
Thou Ghost of Homer 'twere no fault to call,
His the translation thine the Originall,
Did not we know 'twas done by thee so well;
Thou makest Homer, Homers self excell.
To William Shakespear..
Shake-speare we must be silent in thy praise,
'Cause our encomion's will but blast thy Bayes,
Which envy could not, that thou didst so well;
Let thine own histories prove thy Chronicle.
10. To Mr. Thomas Randolph,
Thou darling of the Muses for we may
Be thought deserving, if what was thy play
Our utmost labours can produce, we will
Freely allow thee heir unto the hill,
The Muses did assign thee, and think't fit
Thy younger yeares should have the elder-wit.
Man's like the earth, his hair like grasse is grown, His veins the rivers are, his heart the stone.
Well may mans life be likened to a way,
Many be weary of their life they'll say.
To Mr. Thomas May.
Thou son of Mercury whose fluent tongue
Made Lucan finish his Pharsalian song,
Thy fame is equall, better is thy fate,
Thou hast got Charles his love, he Nero's hate.
Th' hast whipp'd our vices shrewdly and we may,
Think on thy scourge untill our dying-day:
Th' hast given us a Remembrancer which shall
Outlast the vices we are tax'd withall,
Th' hast made us both eternall, for our shame
Shall never Wyther, whilst thou hast a name.
15. To Mr. Thomas Middleton.
Facetious Middleton, thy witty Muse
Hath pleased all, that books or men peruse,
If any thee dispise, he doth but show,
Antipathy to wit, in daring so:
Thy fam's above his malice, and 'twilbe
Dispraise enough for him, to censure thee.
To Mr. Fames Shirly on his Comedy,
viz, the yong Admirall.
How all our votes are for thee (Shirly) come
Conduct our troops, strike up Apollo's drum,
We wait upon thy summons and do all,
Intend to choose thee our yong Admirall,
To Mr. Philip Massinger.
Apollo's Messenger, who doth impart
To us the edicts of his learned art,
We cannot but respect thee, for we know
Princes are honour'd in their Legats so.
18. To Mr. John Ford.
If e're the Muses did admire that well
Of Hellicon, as elder times do tell,
I dare presume to say upon my word,
They much more pleasure take in thee, rare Ford.
19. To Mr. Thomas Heywood.
Thou hast writ much and art admir'd by those,
Who love the easie ambling of thy prose;
But yet thy pleasingst flight, was somewhat high,
When thou did'st touch the angels Hyerarchie :
Fly that way still it will become thy age,
And better please then groveling on the stage.
20. To Mr. Thomas Goffe on his tragedies. When first I heard the Turkish Emperours speak In such a dialect, and Orestes break
His silence in such language, I admir'd
What powerful favorite of the Nimphs inspir'd
Into their Souls such utterance, but I wrong,
To think 'twas learnt from any but thy tongue.
21. On a dying Usurer.
With greater grief non doth death entertain,
Then wretched Chrysalus, he sighs a mayn,
Not that he dyes, but 'cause much cost is spent
Upon the Sexton and his regiment
The joviall ringers, and the Curate must
Have his fee too, when dust is turn'd to dust,
And which is greater then the former sum,
Hee'l pay an angell for a Moor-stone-tomb,
What great revenews Sextus doth possesse,
When as his sums of gold are numberlesse,
What cannot Sextus have? I wonder then,
Sextus cann't live as well as other men.
23. On Celsus his works.
Celsus to please himselfe, a book hath writ:
It seems so, for there's few that buyeth it.
He is no popular man, it thereby seems;
Sith men condemn, what he praise worthy deems,
Yet this his wisdome and his book prefer,
Disprais'd by all, they think both singular.
The Devill and the Fryar.
The Devill was once deceived by a fryar,
Who though he sold his soul, cheated the buyer,
The devill was promist if he would supply
The Fryar with coyn at his necessity,
When all the debts he ow'd discharg'd were quite,
The Devill should have his soul as his by right.
The Devill defray'd all scores, payd all, at last,
Demanded for his due, his soul in haste:
The Fryar return'd this answer, if I ow
You any debts at all, then you must know,
I am indebted still, if nothing be
Due unto you, why do you trouble me?
What? must we then on muddy tap-lash swill,
Neglecting sack? which makes the poet's quill
To thunder forth high raptures, such as when
Sweet-tongued Ovid erst with his smooth pen,
In flourishing Rome did write; frown god of wines
To see how most men disesteem thy Vines.
26. On a land-skip in the lid of his Mrs. Virginals.
Behold Don Phoebus in yon shady grove,
On his sweet harp plaies Roundelaies of love,
Mark how the satyr grim Marsyas playes
On his rude pipe, his merry-harmlesse layes,
Mark how the swaines attentively admire,
Both to the sound of pipe and tang of lyre;
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