Live long the feasting-room, and e'er thou burn
Again, thy architect to ashes turn:
Whom not ten fires, nor a parliament can,
With all remonstrance make an honest man.

TO A FRIEND,

AN EPIGRAM OF HIM.

SIR, Inigo doth fear it, as I hear,

And labours to seem worthy of this fear;
That I should write upon him some sharp verse,
Able to eat into his bones and pierce
The marrow. Wretch! I quit thee of thy pain:
Thou 'rt too ambitious, and dost fear in vain:
The Lybian lion hunts no butter-flies:

He makes the camel and dull ass his prize.
If thou be so desirous to be read,

Seek out some hungry painter, that for bread,
With rotten chalk or coal upon the wall,
Will well design thee to be viewed of all,
That sit upon the common draught or strand;
Thy forehead is too narrow for my brand.

ΤΟ

INIGO MARQUIS WOULD-BE.

A COROLLARY.

BUT 'cause thou hear'st the mighty king of Spain Hath made his Inigo marquis, wouldst thou fain Our Charles should make thee such? 'twill not be

come

All kings to do the self-same deeds with some:
Besides his man may merit it, and be
A noble honest soul; what's this to thee?
He may have skill, and judgment to design
Cities and temples; thou a cave for wine,
Or ale he build a palace; thou the shop,
With sliding windows, and false lights a-top:
He draw a forum, with quadrivial streets;
Thou paint a lane where Tom Thumb Geffrey meets.
He some Colossus, to bestride the seas,
From the famed pillars of old Hercules:
Thy canvas giant at some channel aims,
Or Dowgate torrents falling into Thames;
And straddling shows the boys brown paper fleet
Yearly set out there, to sail down the street :
Your works thus differing, much less so your style,
Content thee to be Pancridge earl the while,
An earl of show; for all thy worth is show;
But when thou turn'st a real Inigo,

Or canst of truth the least intrenchment pitch,
We'll have thee styl'd the marquis of Town-ditch.

Though I confess a Beaumont's book to be
The bound and frontier of our poetry:
And doth deserve all muniments of praise,
That art, or engine, or the strength can raise;
Yet who dares offer a redoubt to rear?
To cut a dike? or stick a stake up here
Before this work? where envy hath not cast
A trench against it, nor a batt'ry plac'd?
Stay till she make her vain approaches; then,
If maimed she come off, 'tis not of men
This fort of so impregnable access;

But higher pow'r, as spight could not make less,
Nor flatt'ry; but secur'd by th' author's name
Defies what's cross to piety, or good fame:
And like a hallowed temple, free from taint
Of ethnicism, makes his Muse a saint.

ΤΟ

MR. JOHN FLETCHER,

UPON HIS FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.

THE wise and many-headed bench that sits
Upon the life and death of plays and wits, [man,
(Compos'd of gamester, captain, knight, knight's
Lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan,
Velvet, or taffeta cap, rank'd in the dark
With the shop's foreman, or some such brave spark
That may judge for his sixpence) had, before
They saw it half, damn'd thy whole play and more:
Their motives were, since it had not to do
With vices, which they look'd for, and came to.
I, that am glad thy innocence was thy guilt,
And wish that all the Muses' blood were spilt
In such a martyrdom, to vex their eyes,
Do crown thy murder'd poem: which shall rise
A glorified work to time, when fire

Or moths shall eat what all these fools admire.

EPITAPH

ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, SISTER TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

UNDERNEATH this marble herse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd, and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

ON

THE HONOURED POEMS

OF HIS HONOURED FRIEND, SIR JOHN BEAUMONT.

THIS book will live, it hath a genius; this
Above his reader or his praiser is.
Hence, then, profane: here needs no words' expence
In bulwarks, rav'lins, ramparts for defence:
Such as the creeping common pioneers use,
When they do sweat to fortify a Muse,

A VISION

ON THE MUSES OF HIS FRIEND M. DRAYTON.

Ir hath been question'd, Michael, if I be
A friend at all; or, if at all, to thee:
Because who make the question, have not seen
Those ambling visits pass in verse between
Thy Muse and mine, as they expect. 'Tis true,
You have not writ to me, nor I to you;
And though I now begin, 'tis not to rub
Haunch against haunch, or raise a rhyming club
About the town; this reck'ning I will pay,
Without conferring symbols; this 's my day.

For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I will not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion. And that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muse's anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn,
For a good poet's made, as well as born.

And such wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue: even so the race

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned, and true filed lines:

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet swan of Avon! what a sight it were,
To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make those slights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd
like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volumes' light,

8. De discubitu non contenditor. 9. Ministri à dapibus, oculati et muti, A poculis, auriti et celeres sunto. [hospes. 10. Vina puris fontibus ministrentur aut vapulet 11. Moderatis poculis provocare sodales fas esto. 12. At fabulis magis quam vino velitatio fiat. 13. Convivæ nec muti nec loquaces sunto.

14. De seriis ac sacris poti et saturi ne disserunto. 15. Fidicen, nisi accersitus, non venito.

16. Admisso risu, tripudiis, choreis, cantu, salibus, Omni gratiarum festivitate sacra celebrantor. 17. Joci sine felle sunto.

18. Insipida poemata nulla recitantor. 19. Versus scribere nullus cogitor.

20. Argumentationis totus strepitus abesto.

21. Amatoriis querelis, ac suspiriis liber angulus esto. 22. Lapitharum more scyphis pugnare, vitrea collidere, [fas esto. Fenestras excutere, supellectilem dilacerare, ne23. Qui foràs vel dicta, vel facta eliminat, elimian24. Neminem reum pocula faciunto.

Focus perennis esto.

[tor.

12. Let the contest be rather of books than of wine. 13. Let the company be neither noisy nor mute. 14. Let none of things serious, much less of divine, When belly and head's full, profanely dispute.

15. Let no saucy fidler presume to intrude,

Unless he is sent for to vary our blisse.

16. With mirth, wit, and dancing, and singing conclude,

To regale ev'ry sense, with delight in excess.

17. Let raillery be without malice or heat. 18. Dull poems to read let none privilege take. 19. Let no poetaster command or entreat

Another extempore verses to make.

20. Let argument bear no unmusical sound,

Nor jars interpose, sacred friendship to grieve. 21. For generous lovers let a corner be found, Where they in soft sighs may their passions relieve.

22. Like the old Lapithites, with the goblets to fight, Our own 'mongst offences unpardon'd will rank; Or breaking of windows, or glasses, for spite, And spoiling the goods for a rakehelly prank.

23. Whoever shall publish what's said, or what's done, Be he banish'd forever our assembly divine. 24. Let the freedom we take be perverted by none, To make any guilty by drinking good wine.

OVER THE DOOR

AT THE ENTRANCE INTO THE APOLLO.

WELCOME all that lead or follow
To the oracle of Apollo-
Here he speaks out of his pottle,
Or the tripos, his tower bottle:
All his answers are divine,
Truth itself doth flow in wine.
Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers,
Cries old Sym, the king of skinkers2;
He the half of life abuses,
That sits watering with the Muses.
Those dull girls no good can mean us;
Wine it is the milk of Venus 3,
And the poet's horse accounted:
Ply it, and you all are mounted.
'Tis the true Phoebeian liquor

Cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker.
Pays all debts, cures all diseases,
And at once three senses pleases.
Welcome all that lead or follow,
To the oracle of Apollo.

2 Cries old Sim, the king of skinkers.] Old Sim means Simon Wadloe, who then kept the Devil Tavern; and of him probably is the old catch, beginning, Old sir Simon the king

3 Wine it is the milk of Venus.] From the Greek Anacreontic, Ovo; Taha A¶poðiln;.

ΤΟ

MY FAITHFUL SERVANT,

AND, BY HIS CONTINUED VIRTUE, MY LOVING FRIEND, THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK, THE NORTHERN LASS, A COMEDY, MR. RICHARD BROOME.

I HAD you for a servant once, Dick Broome,
And you perform'd a servant's faithful parts:
Now you are got into a nearer room

Of fellowship, professing my old arts.
And you do do them well, with good applause,
Which you have justly gained from the stage,
By observation of those comic laws,

Which I your master first did teach the age. You learn'd it well, and for it serv'd your time, A 'prenticeship, which few do now-a-days: Now each court hobby-horse will wince in rhyme, Both learned and unlearned, all write plays. It was not so of old: men took up trades That knew the craft they had been bred in right, An honest bilboe-smith would make good blades, And the physician teach men spue and shThe cobler kept him to his awl; but now He'll be a poet, scarce can guide a plow.

THE JUST INDIGNATION THE AUTHOR TOOK AT

THE VULGAR CENSURE OF HIS PLAY(NEW INN) BY SOME MALICIOUS SPECTATORS, BEGAT THE FOLLOWING ODE TO HIMSELF.

COME, leave the lothed stage,
And the more lothsome age;

Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit)
Usurp the chair of wit!

Inditing and arraigning every day,
Something they call a play.

Let their fastidious, vain
Commission of the brain

Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn: They were not made for thee, less thou for them.

Say that thou pour'st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat;
'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
Whose appetites are dead!
No, give them grains their fill,
Husks, draff to drink and swill.

If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not their palates with the swine.
No doubt some moldy tale,
Like Pericles, and stale

As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish

Thrown forth, and rank'd into the common tub,
May keep up the play-club:
There sweepings do as well
As the best order'd meal.

For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit.

Which, if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd
The gamesters share your guilt, and you their stuff.

Leave things so prostitute,
And take the Alcœic lute;

Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre,

Warm thee by Pindar's fire:

[cold,

And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be
Ere years have made thee old;
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 waine.

That a sale-poet, just contempt once thrown, Should cry up thus your own.

I wonder by what dower,

Or patent, you had power

From all to rape a judgment. Let 't suffice, Had you been modest, you'd been granted wise.

'T is known you can do well,

And that you do excel

As a translator; but when things require
A genius, and a fire

Not kindled heretofore by others' pains,

As oft you've wanted brains,
And art to strike the white,

As you have levell'd right;

Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.

Tug, Pierce, Peek, Fly, and all
Your jests so nominal,

Are things so far beneath an able brain;
As they do throw a stain

Leave then this humour vain,
And this more humorous strain,

Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood,
Eclipse what else is good:

Then, if you please those raptures high to touch,
Whereof you boast so much;

And but forbear your crown,
Till the world puts it on,

No doubt, from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phoebus ever saw.

AN ANSWER

TO MR. BEN JONSON'S ODE, TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVI THE STAGE, BY THOMAS RANDOLPH 7.

BEN, do not leave the stage,
'Cause 't is a lothsome age;

For pride and impudence will grow too bold,
When they shall hear it told

They frighted thee: stand high as is thy cause,
Their hiss is thy applause :
More just were thy disdain,
Had they approv'd thy vein:

So thou for them, and they for thee were born:
They to incense, and thou as much to scorn.

• New Inn, Act III. Scene 2.-Act IV. Scene 4. 'Thomas Randolph, A. M. fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, born at Newnham, near Daventry in Northamptonshire, June 15th. 1605; died at Blatherwyke in that county, March 17th, 1634. His extensive learning, gaiety of humour, and readiness of repartee, gained him admirers among all ranks of mankind, and more especially recommended him to the intimacy and friendship of Jonson, who admitted him as one of his adopted