To SHAKSPEARE.

Thy Mufe's fugred dainties feem to us Like the fam'd apples of old Tantalus: For we (admiring) fee and hear thy ftrains, But none I fee or hear thofe fweets attains.

To Mr. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE."

Shakspeare, we must be filent in thy praise,
'Cause our encomions will but blaft thy bays,
Which envy could not; that thou didft do well,
Let thine own hiftories prove thy chronicle."

In remembrance of Mafter WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

Ode.
I.

Beware, delighted poets, when you sing,
To welcome nature in the early fpring,
Your num'rous feet not tread
The banks of Avon; for each flow'r,
As it ne'er knew a fun or fhow'r,
Hangs there the pensive head.

II.

Each tree, whofe thick and spreading growth hath made

Rather a night beneath the boughs than fhade,
Unwilling now to grow,

Looks like the plume a captain wears,
Whofe rifled falls are fteep'd i'the tears
Which from his laft rage flow.

8 These verses are taken from Two Bookes of Epigrammes and Epitaphs, by Thomas Bancroft, Lond. 1639, 4to. HOLT WHITE. 9 From Wits Recreations, &c. 12mo. 1640. STEEVENS.

III.

The piteous river wept itself away
Long fince alas! to fuch a swift decay,
That reach the map, and look

If you a river there can spy,

And, for a river, your mock'd eye
Will find a fhallow brook.

WILLIAM D'AVENANT.

Part of Shirley's Prologue to The Sisters.

And if you leave us too, we cannot thrive, I'll promise neither play nor poet live

Till ye come back: think what you do; you see What audience we have: what company

To Shakspeare comes? whose mirth did once be

guile

Dull hours, and bufkin'd, made even forrow fmile: So lovely were the wounds, that men would fay They could endure the bleeding a whole day.

See, my lov'd Britons, fee your Shakspeare rise, An awful ghoft, confefs'd to human eyes! Unnam'd, methinks, diftinguifh'd I had been From other fhades, by this eternal green, About whofe wreaths the vulgar poets ftrive, And with a touch their wither'd bays revive. Untaught, unpractis'd, in a barbarous age, I found not, but created first the stage: And if I drain'd no Greek or Latin ftore, 'Twas, that my own abundance gave me more: On foreign trade I needed not rely, Like fruitful Britain rich without supply.

Dryden's Prologue to his Alteration of Troilus and Creffida.

Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart
To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonfon art:
He, monarch-like, gave those his fubjects law,
And is that nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did

grow,

Whilft Jonfon crept and gather'd all below.
This did his love, and this his mirth digeft:
One imitates him moft, the other best.
If they have fince out-writ all other men,
'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakspeare's pen.
Dryden's Prologue to his Alteration of the
Tempest.

Our Shakspeare wrote too in an age as bleft,
The happiest poet of his time, and beft;
A gracious prince's favour cheer'd his muse,
A conftant favour he ne'er fear'd to lofe':
Therefore he wrote with fancy unconfin'd,
And thoughts that were immortal as his mind.
Otway's Prologue to Caius Marius.

Shakspeare, whofe genius to itself a law,
Could men in every height of nature draw.
Rowe's Prologue to the Ambitious Stepmother.

In fuch an age immortal Shakspeare wrote,
By no quaint rules nor hamp'ring criticks taught;
With rough majestick force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art.

Rowe's Prologue to Jane Shore.

Shakspeare, the genius of our ifle, whofe mind (The univerfal mirror of mankind)

Exprefs'd all images, enrich'd the stage,
But fometimes ftoop'd to please a barb'rous age.
When his immortal bays began to grow,
Rude was the language, and the humour low.
He, like the god of day, was always bright;
But rolling in its courfe, his orb of light
Was fully'd and obfcur'd, though foaring high,
With spots contracted from the nether sky.
But whither is the advent'rous muse betray'd?
Forgive her rafhnefs, venerable fhade!

May fpring with purple flowers perfume thy urn,
And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn!
Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,
Imputed to the times, and not to thee!

Some fcions fhot from this immortal root,
Their tops much lower, and lefs fair the fruit.
Jonfon the tribute of my verse might claim,
Had he not ftrove to blemish Shakspeare's name.
But like the radiant twins that gild the sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear.

Fenton's Epiftle to Southerne, 1711.

For lofty fenfe,

Creative fancy, and infpection keen

Through the deep windings of the human heart, Is not wild Shakspeare thine and nature's boast? Thomson's Summer.

Shakspeare (whom you and every playhouse bill Style the divine, the matchlefs, what you will,) For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despight.

Pope's Imitation of Horace's Epiftle to Auguftus.

An Inscription for a Monument of SHAKSPEARE.

O youths and virgins: O declining eld: O pale misfortune's flaves: O ye who dwell Unknown with humble quiet; ye who wait In courts, or fill the golden feat of kings: O fons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretch That weep'ft for jealous love, or the fore wounds Of confcious guilt, or death's rapacious hand, Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam In exile; ye who through the embattled field Seek bright renown; or who for nobler palms Contend, the leaders of a publick cause; Approach: behold this marble. Know ye not The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue Told you the fashion of your own eftate,

The fecrets of your bofom? Here then, round His monument with reverence while ye ftand, Say to each other: "This was Shakspeare's form; "Who walk'd in every path of human life, "Felt every paffion; and to all mankind "Doth now, will ever, that experience yield "Which his own genius only could acquire." AKENSIDE.

From the fame Author's Pleafures of Imagination, B. III.

when lightning fires

The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground,
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed,
Heaves his tempeftuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From fome high cliff, fuperiour, and enjoys
The elemental war.