Strike that disdainful heat,
Throughout, to their defeat,
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain.
But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,
His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men:
They may, blood-shaken then,
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers
As they shall cry, "Like ours,
In sound of peace or wars,
No harp e'er hit the stars,
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign;
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain.”
On the best of English Poets, Ben Jonson,
So seems a star to shoot; when from our sight
Falls the deceit, not from its loss of light;
We want use of a soul, who merely know
What to our passion, or our sense we owe :
By such a hollow glass, our cozen'd eye
Concludes alike all dead, whom it sees die.
Nature is knowledge here but unrefined,
Both differing, as the body from the mind;
Laurel and cypress else, had grown together,
And wither'd without memory to either :
Thus undistinguish'd, might in every part
The sons of earth vie with the sons of art.
Forbid it, holy reverence to his name,
Whose glory hath fill'd up the book of fame!
Drawn to the life of every line and limb,
He (in his truth of art, and that in him)
Lives yet, and will, while letters can be read;
The loss is ours; now hope of life is dead.
Great men, and worthy of report, must fall
Into their earth, and sleeping there sleep all :
Since he whose pen in every strain did use
To drop a verse, and every verse a muse,
Is vow'd to heaven; as having with fair glory,
Sung thanks of honour, or some nobler story.
The court, the university, the heat
Of theatres, with what can else beget
Belief, and admiration, clearly prove
Our poet first in merit, as in love:
Yet if he do not at his full appear,
Survey him in his works, and know him there.
PHINEAS FLETCHER.
From The Purple Island.
WITNESS Our Colin; whom though all the Graces, Spenser.
And all the Muses nursed; whose well-taught song
Parnassus self, and Glorian embraces
And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng;
Yet all his hopes were cross'd, all suits denied;
Discouraged, scorn'd, his writings vilified :
Poorly-poor man-he lived; poorly-poor man-
he died.
To my dear friend, the Spenser of this Age.
Ph. Fletcher. DEAR Friend,
No more a stranger now: I lately past
Thy curious Building: call'd; but then my haste
Denied me a full draught, I did but taste.
Thy wine was rich and pleasing; did appear
No common grape: my haste could not forbear
A second sip; I hung a garland there :
Past on my way; I lash'd through thick and thin,
Despatch'd my business, and return'd again;
I call'd the second time; unhorsed, went in:
View'd every room; each room was beautified
With new invention, carved on every side,
To please the common and the curious eyed ;
View'd every office; every office lay
Like a rich magazine; and did bewray
Thy treasure, open'd with thy golden key:
View'd every orchard; every orchard did
Appear a Paradise whose fruits were hid
-Perchance-with shadowing leaves, but none
forbid :
View'd every plot; spent some delightful hours:
In every garden, full of new-born flowers,
Delicious banks, and delectable bowers.
Thus having stepp'd and travell'd every stair
Within, and tasted every fruit that's rare
Without; I made thy house my thorough-fare.
Then give me leave, rare Fletcher,—as before
I left a garland at thy gates-once more
To hang this ivy at thy postern door.
A Prologue to the Alchemist. [1637
THE Alchemist, a play for strength of wit,
And true art, made to shame what hath been writ
In former ages; I except no worth
Of what or Greeks or Latins have brought forth;
Is now to be presented to your ear,
For which I wish each man were a Muse here,
To know, and in his soul be fit to be
Judge of this masterpiece of comedy;
That when we hear but once of Jonson's name,
Whose mention shall make proud the breath of
We may agree, and crowns of laurel bring
A justice unto him the poets' king.
But he is dead: time, envious of that bliss
Which we possess'd in that great brain of his,
By putting out this light, hath darken'd all
The sphere of poesy, and we let fall,
At best, unworthy elegies on his hearse,
A tribute that we owe his living verse;
Which though some men, that never reach'd him,
Decry, that love all folly in a play,
The wiser few shall this distinction have,
To kneel, not tread, upon his honour'd grave.
From An Elegy upon the Death of
Dr. Donne.
HERE lies a King that ruled as he thought fit
The universal monarchy of wit.
From Commendatory Verses on
Ben Jonson.
FOR lyric sweetness in an ode, or sonnet,
To BEN the best of wits might vail their bonnet.
To Ben Jonson.
LET Ignorance with Envy chat,
In spite of both, thou fame shalt win;
Whose mass of learning seems like that
Which Joseph gave to Benjamin.
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