For my old friend: some passages there be
In him, which, I protest, have taken me
With almost wonder; so fine, clear, and new,
As yet they have been equalled by few.
Next Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Marlowe.
Had in him those brave translunary things
That the first poets had; his raptures were
All air and fire, which made his verses clear;
For that fine madness still he did retain
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.
And surely Nash, though he a proser were,
A branch of laurel yet deserves to bear;
Sharply satiric was he, and that way
He went, that since his being to this day
Few have attempted; and I surely think
Those words shall hardly be set down with ink
Should scorch and blast so as his could where he
Would inflict vengeance. And be it said of thee,
Shakespeare, thou had'st as smooth a comic vein,
Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain
As strong conception and as clear a rage
As any one that traffick'd with the stage.
Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I
May speak of, but to censure do deny,
Only have heard some wise men him rehearse,
To be too much historian in verse:
His rimes were smooth, his metres well did close,
But yet his manner better fitted prose.
Next these, learn'd Jonson in this list I bring,
Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring,
Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
And long was lord here of the theater:
Who in opinion made our learn'd to stick
Whether in poems rightly dramatic
Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
Should bear the buskin and the sock away.
Others again here lived in my days
That have of us deservèd no less praise
For their translations than the daintiest wit
That on Parnassus thinks he highest doth sit.
And for a chair may 'mongst the Muses call
As the most curious maker of them all :
As reverent Chapman, who hath brought to us
Musæus, Homer, and Herodotus
Out of the Greek, and by his skill hath rear'd
Them to that height and to our tongue endear'd
That, were those poets at this day alive
To see their books thus with us to survive,
They would think, having neglected them so long,
They had bin written in the English tongue.
And Silvester, who from the French more weak
Made Bartas of his six days' labour speak
In natural English, who, had he there stay'd
He had done well, and never had bewray'd
His own invention to have bin so poor,
Who still wrote less in striving to write more.
Then dainty Sands, that hath to English done
Smooth-sliding Ovid, and hath made him run
With so much sweetness and unusual grace,
As though the neatness of the English pace
Should tell the jetting Latin that it came
But slowly after, as though stiff and lame.
So Scotland sent us hither for our own
That man whose name I ever would have known
To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
My Alexander, to whom in his right
I want extremely, yet in speaking thus
I do but show the love that was 'twixt us,
And not his numbers, which were brave and high,
So like his mind was his clear poesie.
And my dear Drummond, to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud I was to know
His poesie: for which two worthy men
I Menstry still shall love, and Hawthornden.
Then the two Beaumonts and my Browne arose,
My dear companions whom I freely chose
My bosom friends, and in their several ways
Rightly born poets, and in these last days
Men of much note and no less nobler parts,
Such as have freely told to me their hearts
As I have mine to them. But if you shall
Say in your knowledge that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only myself to these few men do tie
Whose works oft printed, set on every post,
To public censure subject have been most.
To such whose poems, be they ne'er so rare,
In private chambers that incloister'd are,
And by transcription daintily must go,
As though the world unworthy were to know
Their rich composures, let those men that keep
These wondrous relics in their judgments deep,
And cry them up so, let such pieces be
Spoke of by those that shall come after me;
I hope not for them: nor do mean to run
In quest of these that them applause have won
Upon our stages in these latter days,
That are so many; let them have their bays
That do deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Beaumont,
Sir J. Beau-
mont and
Browne.
Those public circuits, let them freely chaunt
Their fine composures, and their praise pursue.
And so, my dear friend, for this time adieu.
From The Hierarchie of the Blessed
OUR modern poets to that pass are driven,
Those names are curtal'd which they first had
And, as we wish to have their memories drown'd,
We scarcely can afford them half their sound.
Greene, who had in both Academies ta'en
Degree of Master, yet could never gain
To be call'd more than Robin: who, had he
Profest ought save the Muse, served, and been free
After a seven years' prenticeship, might have
(With credit too) gone Robert to his grave.
Marlow, renown'd for his rare art and wit,
Could ne'er attain beyond the name of Kit;
Although his Hero and Leander did
Merit addition rather. Famous Kyd
Able to make Apollo's self to dote
Upon his Muse; for all that he could strive,
Yet never could to his full name arrive.
Tom, Nash (in his time of no small esteem)
Could not a second syllable redeem.
Excellent Beaumont, in the foremost rank
Of the rarest wits, was never more than Frank.
Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose enchanting quill
Commanded mirth or passion, was but Will.
And famous Jonson, though his learned pen
Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben.
Fletcher and Webster, of that learned pack
None of the mean'st, yet neither was but Jack.
Decker's but Tom; nor May, nor Middleton.
And he's now but Jack Ford, that once were John.
JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD.
To our English Terence, Mr. Will.
Shakespeare.
SOME say, good Will, which I, in sport, do sing,
Had'st thou not play'd some kingly parts in
Thou had'st been a companion for a king;
And been a king among the meaner sort.
Some others rail; but, rail as they think fit,
Thou hast no railing, but an honest wit:
And honesty thou sow'st, which they do reap;
So, to increase their stock which they do keep.
Letter to Ben Jonson.
THE Sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring
To absent friends, because the self-same thing
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