I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
MY SHAKSPEARE, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further, to make thee a room1:
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 disproportioned Muses;
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names, but call forth thund'ring Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova2 dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for a comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes 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 Muses still 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 designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,

1 In allusion to W. Basse's elegy on Shakspeare, beginning'Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh

2 Seneca.

To learned Chaucer; and rare Beaumont, lie
A little nearer Spenser, to make room

For Shakespear in your threefold, fourfold tomb.'

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and that he1
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel he may gain to scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.

And such wert thou! Look, how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well turnèd and true filèd lines,

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza and our James!

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere

Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage

Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage,

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night, And despairs day but for thy volume's light.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE1.

[From Underwoods.]

Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,

SIDNEY'S sister, PEMBROKE'S mother;
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

AN EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY.

[From Underwoods.]

Reader, stay;

And if I had no more to say

But Here doth lie, till the last day,
All that is left of PHILIP GRAY,
It might thy patience richly pay:

For if such men as he could die,
What surety o' life have thou and I?

EPODE2.

[From The Forest.]

Not to know vice at all, and keep true state,

Is virtue and not Fate;

Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,
And her black spite expel.

Which to effect (since no breast is so sure
Or safe, but she'll procure

Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard

Of thoughts to watch and ward

1 Mary, sister of Sir Philip Sidney (who wrote his Arcadia for her), and mother of William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke. She died in 1621, and is buried in Salisbury Cathedral.

2 The following is only the earlier (general) part of this fine Epode, 'sung to deep ears.'

At the eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,
That no strange or unkind

Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy
Give knowledge instantly

To wakeful reason, our affections' king:
Who, in th' examining,

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
Close the close cause of it.

'Tis the securest policy we have

To make our sense our slave.

But this true course is not embraced by many

By many? scarce by any.

For either our affections do rebel,

Or else the sentinel,

That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep;
Or some great thought doth keep
Back the intelligence, and falsely swears
They are base and idle fears
Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.
Thus, by these subtle trains

Do several passions invade the mind,
And strike our reason blind.

TO HEAVEN.

[From The Forest.]

Good and great God! can I not think of Thee, But it must straight my melancholy be?

Is it interpreted in me disease,

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?
O be Thou witness, that the reins dost know
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show;
And judge me after, if I dare pretend
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.
As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me,
First, midst, and last, converted One and Three!
My faith, my hope, my love; and, in this state,
My judge, my witness, and my advocate!

Where have I been this while exiled from Thee, And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me? Dwell, dwell here still! O, being everywhere, How can I doubt to find Thee ever here?

I know my state, both full of shame and scorn,
Conceived in sin, and unto labour born,
Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,
And destined unto judgment, after all.

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground
Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound ;—
Yet dare I not complain or wish for death,
With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath
Of discontent; or that these prayers be
For weariness of life, not love of Thee.