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

Hangs, there, the penfive Head.


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 à Captain weares,
Whofe rifled Falls are fteept i'th Teares
Which from his laft Rage flow.

The piteous River wept it felf away,
Long fince (alas!) to fuch a fwift 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.


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

HIS Figure, that thou here feeft put,


It was for gentle Shakespeare cut;

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

B. J.


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

And What he hath left us.

To draw no Envy (Shakespeare) 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 praife too much.
'Tis true, and all mens fuffrage. But thefe wayes
Were not the paths I meant unto thy Praife:
For feelieft Ignorance on thefe may light,
Which, when it founds at beft, but echoes rights
Or blind Affection, which doth ne'er advance
The Truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty Malice might pretend this Praifes
And think to ruine, where it feem'd to raife.
Thefe are, as fome infamous Baud, or Whore,
Should praife 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!
Th' applaufe! delight! the wonder of our Stage!
My Shakespeare, 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 ftill, while thy Book doth live,
And we have Wits to read, and Praise to give.
That I not mix thee fo, my brain excufes;
I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses:


For if I thought my Fudgment were of Years,
I should commit thee, furely, with thy Peers:
And tell how far thou didst our Lilly out-shine,
Or Sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty Line.
And though thou hadst fmall Latin and lefs Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not feek

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For Names; but call for dy

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 hast 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 fo 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 muft I not give Nature all Thy Art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the Poet's matter Nature be,
His Art doth give the Fashion: And, that bes


Who cafts to write a living Line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and ftrike the fecond 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 his well-torned, and true-filed Lines:

In each of which he seems to shake a Lance,
As brandifb'd at the Eyes of Ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a fight it were
To fee 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, bath mourn'd like

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

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The Names of the SUBSCRIBERS.




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

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

William Archer, Efq;

William Arnold, Efq;

Edward Afh, Efq;

John Auften, Efq;

Robert Andrews, Efq;

Reverend Mr. George Adams.


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.


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