Page 12
p. 12
To
the
Memory
of
the
deceased
Author
Mr.
WILLIAM
SHAKESPEAR.
S
Hakespear,
at
length
thy
pious
Fellows
give
The
World
thy
Works:
thy
Works,
by
which,
out-live
Thy
Tomb,
thy
Name
must:
when
that
stone
is
rent,
And
Time
dissolves
thy
Stratford
Monument,
Here
we
alive
shall
view
thee
still.
This
Book,
When
Brass
and
Marble
fade,
shall
make
thee
look
Fresh
to
all
Ages:
when
Posterity
Shall
loathe
what’s
new,
think
all
is
prodigy
That
is
not
Shakespear's
;
ev'ry
Line,
each
Verse
Here
shall
revive,
redeem
thee
from
thy
Herse.
Nor
Fire,
nor
cankring
Age,
as
Naso
said,
Of
his,
thy
wit-fraught
Book
shall
once
invade.
Nor
shall
I
ere
believe,
or
think
thee
dead
(Tho
mist)
until
our
bankrout
Stage
be
sped
(Impossible)
with
some
new
strain
t'out-do
Passions
of
Juliet,
and
her
Romeo
;
Or
till
I
hear
a
Scene
more
nobly
take,
Than
when
thy
half
sword
parlying
Yeomans
spake.
Till
these,
till
any
of
thy
Volumes
rest
Shall
with
more
fire,
more
feeling
be
exprest,
Be
sure,
our
Shakespear,
thou
canst
never
die,
But
crown’d
with
Lawrel,
live
eternally.
L.
Digges.
Upon
the
Effigies
of
my
worthy
Friend
the
Author,
Mr.
W.
Shakespear,
and
his
Works.
S
Pectator,
this
Lifes
Shadow,
is
to
see
_
The
truer
Image
and
a
livelier
he
Turn
Reader.
But,
observe
his
Comick
vain,
Laugh,
and
proceed
next
to
a
Tragick
strain,
Then
weep
;
So
when
thou
find’st
two
contraries,
Two
different
passions
from
thy
rapt
soul
rise,
Say,
(who
alone
effect
such
wonders
could)
Rare
Shakespear
to
the
life
thou
dost
behold.
To
the
Memory
of
Mr.
W.
Shakespear.
W
E
wonder
(Shakespear)
that
thou
went’st
so
soon,
From
the
Worlds-Stage,
to
the
Graves-Tyring-
room.
We
thought
thee
dead,
but
this
thy
Printed
worth
Tells
thy
Spectators,
that
thou
went’st
but
forth
To
enter
with
applause.
An
Actors
Art,
Can
dye,
and
live,
to
act
a
second
Part.
That’s
but
an
Exit
of
Mortality
;
This,
a
Re-entrance
to
a
Plaudite.
J.
M
To
the
Memory
of
my
beloved,
the
Au-
thor,
Mr.
William
Shakefpear
;
And
what
he
hath
left
us.
T
O
draw
no
envy
(Shakespear)
on
thy
Name,
Am
I
thus
ample
to
thy
Book
and
Fame
:
While
I
confess
thy
writings
to
be
such,
As
neither
Man
nor
Muse
can
praise
too
much.
'Tis
true,
and
all
mens
suffrage.
But
these
ways
Were
not
the
paths
I
meant
unto
thy
praise:
For
seeliest
Ignorance
on
these
may
light,
Which,
when
it
sounds
at
best,
but
eccho’s
right;
Or
blind
Affection,
which
doth
ne’re
advance
The
truth,
but
gropes,
and
urgeth
all
by
chance;
Or
crafty
malice,
might
pretend
this
praise,
And
think
to
ruin
where
it
seem’d
to
raise.
These
are,
as
some
infamous
Bawd,
or
Whore,
Should
praise
a
Matron.
What
could
hurt
her
more?
But
thou
art
proof
against
them,
and
indeed
Above
th’
ill
fortune
of
them,
or
the
need.
I
therefore
will
begin.
Soul
of
the
Age!
The
applause!
delight!
the
wonder
of
our
Stage!
My
Shakespear
rise;
I
will
not
lodg
thee
by
Chancer,
or
Spenser,
or
bid
Beaumont
lie
A
little
further,
to
make
thee
a
room:
Thou
art
a
Monument
without
a
Tomb,
And
art
alive
still,
while
thy
Book
doth
live,
And
we
have
wits
to
read,
and
praise
to
give.
That
I
not
mix
thee
so,
my
brain
excuses;
I
mean
with
great,
but
disproportion’d
Muses:
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
out-shine,
Or
sporting
Kid,
or
Marlow's
mighty
Line.
And
tho
thou
hadst
small
Latine,
and
less
Greek.
From
thence
to
honour
thee,
I
would
not
seek
For
names;
but
call
forth
thund’ring
AEschylus,
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
her
self
was
proud
of
his
designs,
And
joy’d
to
wear
the
dressing
of
his
Lines!
Which
were
so
richly
spun,
and
wov’n
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
Natures
family.
Yet