AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A Child of Weep with me, all you that read And know, for whom a tear you shed 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive Years he numbered scarce thirteen When Fates turned cruel, Yet three filled zodiacs had he been And did act, what now we moan, As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,— He played so truly. So, by error to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since, alas, too late They have repented; And have sought to give new birth But being so much too good for earth, EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. Wouldst thou hear what man can say Underneath this stone doth lie To more virtue than doth live. 1 These children (called in the next reign Children of Her Majesty's Revels) were trained up to act before the Queen. Salathiel had acted in two of Jonson's plays, in 1600, and in 1601, when he is supposed to have died. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. The other, let it sleep in death, Than that it lived at all. Farewell! AN ODE TO HIMSELF. [From Underwoods.] Where dost thou careless lie Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth That eats on wits and arts, and [that]1 destroys them both. Are all the Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings; Or droop they as disgraced, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause, Let this thought quicken thee: Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause; 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry, And think it poësy? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre ; Strike in thy proper strain; With Japhet's line1 aspire Sol's chariot, for new fire To give the world again : Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And, since our dainty age Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM [Printed by Gifford in Underwoods, but really from the First Folio edition of Shakspeare, 1623.] To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much. 1 Prometheus son of Iapetus. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! A little further, to make thee a room1: And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova2 dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on, Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 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 For Shakespear in your threefold, fourfold tomb.' Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As they were not of Nature's family. And such wert thou! Look, how the father's face Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines 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, But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 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. |