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Upon the Lines, and Life, of the famous Scenick Poet, Master William SHAKESPEAR.E.

Those bands, which you to clapt, go now and wring, You Britains brave; for done are Shakespeare's days; His days are done, that made the dainty plays, . Which made the globe of heaven and earth to ring :

Dry'd is that vein, dry'd is the Thespian spring, Turn'd all to tears, and Pbæbus clouds bis rays ; That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays,

Which crown'd bim poet first, then poets' king. If tragedies might any prologue have, .

All those be made would scarce make one to this; Wbere fame, now that be gone is to the grave,

(Death's publick tyring-house) the Nuntius is : For, though his line of life went soon about, The life yet of his lines shall never out.

Hugh HOLLAND.

To the Memory of the deceased Author, Mafter W. SHAKESPEAR I.

Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give . 9 be world thy works; thy works, by which outlive Thy tomb, tby name must :, when that stone is rent, And time dissolves by Stratford monument, Here we alive fall view thee ftill; this book, When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look Fresh to all ages ; when posterity Shall loath what's new, think all is prodigy That is not Shakespeare's, every line, each verse, Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy herle, Nor fire, nor cankring age--as Nafo faid Of bis, - thy wit fraught book pall once invade : Normall I e'er believe or think thee dead, Tbougo mift, until our bankrout stage be fred

IN 4]

(Impofille)

( Imposible) with some new strain to out-do-
Pasions of Juliet, and ber Romeo ;
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take,
Than when thy half-sword parlying Romans Spake :
Till these, till any of thy volume's rest,
Shall withomore fire more feeling be expressid,
Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But, crown'd with laurel, live eternally.

L. Dicces.

GGES.

To the Memory of Master W. SHAKESPEARE.

We wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou wentft fo foon From the world's stage to the grave's tyring-room : We thought thee dead; but this thy printed wortb Tel's thy Speclators, that thou went'jt but forth To enter with applause : ail actor's art Can die, and live to act a second part; That's but an exit of mortality, This a re-entrance to a plaudite.

J. M.

On worthy Master SHAKESPEARE,

and his Poems.

A mind refiefling ages past, whose clear.
And equal surface can make things appear,
Distant a ticusand years, and represent.
Them in their lively colours, just extent :
To currun basty time, retrieve the fates,
Rozol back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confused lie
Great beaps of ruinous mortality :
In that deep dusky dungeon, to discern
A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn ' - .
The physiognomy of mades, and give :
Them juddin birth, wondring how oft they live;

ft tbey live : What

.

What flory coldly tells, what poets feign

At fecond hand, and picture without brain,
Senieless and foul-less Jews : to give a siage,
Ample, and true with life, ---voice, cElion, age,
As Plato's year, and new scene of the world,
Them unto us, or us to them had bursd:
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their herse,
Make kings bis fubjeis ; by exchanging verse
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage:
Yet fo to temper pasion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both smile and weep ; fearful at plots so sad,
Then laughing at our fear ; abus'd, and glad
To be abus'd; affected with that trutb
Which we perceive is false, pleas'd in that ruth
At which we start, and, by elaborate play,
Tortur'd and tickld; by a crab-like way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly fort
Disgorging up bis ravin for our Sport:
-While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne,
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines ; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love ;
To strike up and stroak down, both joy and ire ;
To steer the affeétions ; and by heavenly fire
Mold us anew, stoln from our felves :-

This,-and much more, which cannot be express'd
But by himself, bis tongue, and his own breast,-
Was Shakespeare's freehold; which bis cunning brain
Improv'd by favour of the nine-fold train ;
The buskin'd muje, the comick queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio, nimble band
And nimbler foot of the melodier's pair,
The silver-voiced lady, the most fair
Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts,
And she whose praise the heavenly body chants.

Theja

These jointly woo'd him, 'envying one another ;-
Obey'd by all as Spouse, but lov'd as brother ;-
And wrought a curious robe, of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly rullet, and the scarlet bright:
Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted spring;
Each leaf mctch'd with a flower, and each String
Of golden wire, each line of file : there run
Italian works, whose thread the filters fpun;
And there did fing, or seem to fing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice :
Here hangs a molly rock; there plays a fair
But cbiding fountain, purled: not the air,
Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn ;
Not cut of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials, which the muses know,
And only know the countries where they grow.

Now, when they could no longer bim enjoy,
In mortal garments pent,--death may destroy,
They say, his body; but his verfe mall live,
And more than nature takes our bends ball give :
In a lefs volume, but more jtrongly bound,
Shakespeare Mall breathe and speak; with laurel crown'd,
Which never fades; fed with ambrosial meat ;
In a well-lined vesture, rich, and neat :
So with this robe they cloath him, bid bim wear it;
For time all never stain, nor envy tear it. :

The friendly Admirer of his Endowments,

J. M. S.

An

An Epitaph on the . admirable dramatick Poet, W. SHAKESPEARE.

Wbat needs, my Shakespeare, for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in piled fiones ; Or that bis hallow'd reliques pould be bid Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? Degr son of memory, great beir of fame, What needst thou fucb weak witness of thy name? Tbou, in our wonder and astonishmeni, Haft built thyself a live-long monument : For whilst, to the foame of now-endeavouring art, Thy eafy numbers flow; and that each beart Hatb, from the leaves of thy unvalu'd book, Those Delpbick lines with deep impresion took ; Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; And, so fepulcber'd, in such pomp dost lie, That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.

John Milton.

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