TO THE MEMORY OF

BENJAMIN JONSON.

IF Romulus did promise in the fight,
To Jove the Stator, if he held from flight
His men, a temple, and perform'd his vow:
Why should not we, learn'd JONSON, thee allow
An altar at the least? since by thy aid,
Learning, that would have left us, has been stay'd.
The actions were different: that thing
Requir'd some mark to keep't from perishing;
But letters must be quite defaced, before
Thy memory, whose care did them restore.

BUCKHURST.

TO THE MEMORY OF

HIM WHO CAN NEVER BE FORGOTTEN,

MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON.

Had this been for some meaner poet's herse,
I might have then observ'd the laws of verse:
But here they fail, nor can I hope to express
In numbers, what the world grants numberless;
Such are the truths, we ought to speak of thee,
Thou great refiner of our poesy,

Who turn'st to gold that which before was lead ;
Then with that pure elixir rais'd the dead!
Nine sisters who (for all the poets lies)
Had been deem'd mortal, did not JONSON rise
And with celestial sparks (not stoln) revive
Those who could erst keep winged fame alive:
'Twas he that found (plac'd) in the seat of wit,
Dull grinning ignorance, and banish'd it;
He on the prostituted stage appears

To make men hear, not by their eyes, but ears;
Who painted virtues, that each one might know,
And point the man, that did such treasure owe:
So that who could in JONSON's lines be high
Needed not honours, or a riband buy;
But vice he only shewed us in a glass,
Which by reflection of those rays that pass,
Retains the figure lively, set before,
And that withdrawn, reflects at us no more;
So, he observ'd the like decorum, when
He whipt the vices, and yet spar'd the men:
When heretofore, the Vice's only note,
And sign from virtue was his party-coat;
When devils were the last men on the stage,
And pray'd for plenty, and the present age.

Nor was our English language, only bound
To thank him, for he Latin Horace found
(Who so inspired Rome, with his lyric song)
Translated in the macaronic tongue;
Cloth'd in such rags, as one might safely vow,
That his Mæcenas would not own him now:
On him he took this pity, as to clothe
In words, and such expression, as for both,
There's none but judgeth the exchange will come
To twenty more, than when he sold at Rome.

Since then, he made our language pure and good,
And us to speak, but what we understood,
We owe this praise to him, that should we join
To pay him, he were paid but with the coin
Himself hath minted, which we know by this,
That no words pass for current now, but his.
And though he in a blinder age could change
Faults to perfections, yet 'twas far more strange
To see (however times, and fashions frame)
His wit and language still remain the same
In all men's mouths; grave preachers did it use
As golden pills, by which they might infuse
Their heavenly physic; ministers of state
Their grave dispatches in his language wrate;
Ladies made curt'sies in them, courtiers, legs,
Physicians bills; -perhaps, some pedant begs.
He may not use it, for he hears 'tis such,
As in few words a man may utter much.
Could I have spoken in his language too,
I had not said so much, as now I do,
To whose clear memory I this tribute send,
Who dead 's my Wonder, living was my Friend.
JOHN BEAUMONT, Bart.

+ The family of Beaumont boasts a royal descent; there is a letter of king John's to one of the Beaumonts, preserved in Rymer's Fœdera, acknowledging the consanguinity. The baronet before us was the eldest son of the author of "Bosworth field," and other poems: he was born at Grace-dieu in Leicestershire in 1607. In the rebellion, which followed hard upon the composition of this poem, sir John Beaumont took up arms, obtained a colonel's commission, and was slain at the siege of Gloucester, 1644. GILCHRIST.

TO THE MEMORY OF

MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON.

To press into the throng, where wits thus strive To make thy laurels fading tombs survive, Argues thy worth, their love, my bold desire, Somewhat to sing, though but to fill the quire: But (truth to speak) what muse can silent be, Or little say, that hath for subject, thee? Whose poems such, that as the sphere of fire, They warm insensibly, and force inspire, Knowledge, and witinfuse, mute tongues unloose, And ways not track'd to write, and speak dis

close.

But when thou put'st thy tragic buskin on, Or comic sock of mirthful action, Actors, as if inspired from thy hand, Speak, beyond what they think, less, understand; And thirsty hearers, wonder-stricken, say, Thy words make that a truth, was meant a play. Folly, and brain-sick humours of the time, Distemper'd passion, and audacious crime, Thy pen so on the stage doth personate, That ere men scarce begin to know, they hate The vice presented, and there lessons learn, Virtue, from vicious habits to discern. Oft have I seen thee in a sprightly strain, To lash a vice, and yet no one complain; Thou threw'st the ink of malice from thy pen, Whose aim was evil manners, not ill men. Let then frail parts repose, where solemn care Of pious friends their Pyramids prepare;

And take thou, BEN, from Verse a second breath, Which shall create Thee new, and conquer death. Sir THOMAS HAWKINS.

TO THE MEMORY OF

MY FRIEND, BEN JONSON.

I SEE that wreath which doth the wearer arm
'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm
To keep off death's pale dart; for, JONSON, then
Thou hadst been number'd still with living men:
Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.
Amongst those many votaries that come
To offer up their garlands at thy tomb,