THE PRINTER TO THE READER. T is now about six months1 since the most learned and judicious poet, B. JONSON, became a subject for these Elegies. The time interjected between his death and the publishing of these, shews that so great an argument ought to be considered, before handled; not that the Gentlemen's affections were less ready to grieve, but their judgments to write. At length the loose papers were consigned to the hands of a Gentleman, who truly honoured him (for he knew why he did so). To his care you are beholding that they are now made yours. And he was willing to let you know the value of what you have lost, that you might the better recommend what you have left of him, to your posterity. Farewell. E. P. 1 It is now about six months.] Jonson died on the sixth of August, 1637; the Poems must therefore have appeared about the beginning of March, 1638. 2 This "gentleman," we find in Howell's Letters, was Dr. Bryan Duppa, bishop of Winchester. Nor was the present collection of tributary offerings the only praise of this excellent man. The patron of learning when learning was proscribed,-for the greater part of what is beautiful and useful in the writings of Mayne, Cartwright, and many others, religion and literature are indebted to the fostering protection of doctor Bryan Duppa. He was born at Greenwich, 10th March, 1588, admitted of Christ Church, Oxford, from Westminster School, in May, 1605. After passing through various honourable situations in the university and at court, he was successively consecrated bishop of Chichester, Salisbury, and Winchester, and died at his favourite residence at Richmond the 26th March, 1662. Charles II. visited him on his death bed, and begged his blessing on his bended knees. There is great pleasure in opposing these honourable and liberal proofs of the good understanding which subsisted between contemporary poets to the slight and imperfect premises from which dramatic editors have laboured to deduce proofs of most opposite and disgraceful feelings. GILCHRIST. YLAS, the clear day boasts a glorious sun, Our troop is ready, and our time is come: That fox who hath so long our lambs And daily in his prosperous rapine joy'd, In part the sport, in part revenge desire, Mel. What mean thy folded arms, thy downcast eyes, Tears which so fast descend, and sighs which rise? What mean thy words, which so distracted fall Cause for such grief, can our retirements yield? Part of thy flock hath some fierce torrent drown'd? Hyl. Nor love nor anger, accident nor thief, Give all my herds, fields, flocks, and all the grace Alas, that bard, that glorious bard is dead, Who, when I whilom cities visited, Hath made them seem but hours, which were full days, Whilst he vouchsafed me his harmonious lays : Mel. Jonson you mean, unless I much do err, Hyl. You guess aright, it is too truly so, I now excuse thy tears and sighs, though those He his neglected lyre away hath thrown, To find his herbs, which to his wish prevail, Hyl. But say, from whence in thee this knowledge springs, Of what his favour was with gods and kings. Mel. Dorus, who long had known books, men, and towns, At last the honour of our woods and downs, Of our discourse; and make his friend his theme, And praising works which that rare loom hath weav'd, Impart that pleasure which he had receiv'd. |