Page 13
V
Yet
must
I
not
give
Nature
all:
Thy
Art,
My
gentle
Shakespear
must
enjoy
a
part.
For
tho
the
Poets
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
Muses
Anvile:
turn
the
same,
(And
himself
with
it)
that
he
thinks
to
frame;
Or
for
the
Lawrel,
he
may
gain
a
scorn,
For
a
good
Poet’s
made,
as
well
as
born.
And
such
wert
thou.
Look
how
the
Fathers
face
Lives
in
his
Issue,
even
so
the
race
Of
Shakespear'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’t
at
the
eyes
of
Ignorance.
Sweet
Swan
of
Avon!
what
a
fight
it
were
To
see
thee
in
our
water
yet
appear,
And
make
those
flights
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
chear
the
drooping
Stage,
Which,
since
thy
flight
from
hence,
hath
mourn’d
like
night,
And
despairs
day,
but
for
thy
Volumes
light.
B
E
N.
J
O
H
N
S
O
N.
On
worthy
Mr.
Shakespear,
and
his
Poems.
A
Mind
reflecting
ages
past,
whose
clear
And
equal
surface
can
make
things
appear
Distant
a
Thousand
years,
and
represent
Them
in
their
lively
colours
just
extent.
To
out
run
hasty
Time,
retrieve
the
Fates,
Rowl
back
the
Heavens,
blow
ope
the
Iron
Gates
Of
Death
and
Lethe,
where
(confused)
lie
Great
heaps
of
ruinous
Mortality.
In
that
deep
dusky
dungeon
to
discern
A
Royal
Ghost
from
Churls
;
By
art
to
learn
The
Physiognomy
of
shades,
and
give
Them
sudden
birth,
wondring
how
oft
they
live.
What
story
coldly
tells,
what
Poets
sain
At
second
hand
and
Picture,
without
brain
Senseless
and
soulless
shows.
To
give
a
Stage
(Ample
aud
true
with
life)
voice,
action,
age,
As
Plato's
year,
and
new
Scene
of
the
world,
Them
unto
us,
or
us
to
them
had
hurl’d,
jTo
raise
our
ancient
Soveraigns
from
their
Herse,
Make
Kings
his
Subjects,
by
exchanging
verse
;
Enlive
their
pale
trunks,
that
the
present
age
Joys
in
their
joy,
and
trembles
at
their
rage
:
Yet
so
to
temper
passion,
that
our
ears
Take
pleasure
in
their
pain;
and
eyes
in
tears
Both
weep
and
smile,
fearful
at
plots
so
sad,
Then
laughing
at
our
fear;
abus’d
and
glad
To
be
abus'd,
affected
with
that
truth
Which
we
perceive
is
false
;
pleas’d
in
that
truth
At
which
we
start;
and
by
elaborate
play
Tortur’d
and
tickled
;
by
a
crab-like
way
Time
past
made
pastime,
and
in
ugly
fort
Disgorging
up
his
ravine
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
th’
affections
;
and
by
heavenly
fire
Mould
us
anew.
Stoln
from
our
selves———
This
and
much
more
which
cannot
be
exprest,
But
by
himself,
his
tongue,
and
his
own
breast,
Was
Shakespear's
freehold,
which
his
cunning
brain
Improv’d
by
favour
of
the
ninefold
train.
The
Buskin’d
Muse,
the
Comick
Queen,
the
grand
And
louder
tone
of
Clio;
nimble
hand,
And
nimbler
foot
of
the
melodious
pair,
The
Silver
voiced
Lady;
the
most
fair
Calliope,
whose
speaking
silence
daunts,
And
she
whose
praise
the
heavenly
body
chaunts.
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
blew,
rich
purple,
guiltless
white,
The
lowly
Ruffet,
and
the
Scarlet
bright
;
Branch’t
and
embroidered
like
the
painted
Spring
Each
leaf
match’d
with
a
Flower,
and
each
string
Of
golden
wire,
each
line
of
silk;
there
run
Italian
works
whose
thred
the
Sisters
spun
;
And
there
did
sing,
or
seem
to
sing,
the
choice
Birds
of
a
forreign
note,
and
various
voice.
Here
hangs
a
mossey
Rock;
there
plays
a
fair
But
chiding
Fountain
purled
:
Not
the
air,
Nor
Clouds,
nor
Thunder,
but
were
living
drawn,
Not
out
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
him
enjoy
In
mortal
garments
pent;
death
may
destroy
They
say
his
body,
but
his
Verse
shall
live
And
more
than
Nature
takes,
our
hands
shall
give.
In
a
less
Volume,
but
more
strongly
bound
Shakespear
shall
breathe
and
speak,
with
Lawrel
crown’d
Which
never
fades.
Fed
with
Ambrosian
meat,
In
a
well-lined
Vesture
rich
and
neat
So
with
this
Robe
they
cloathe
him,
bid
him
wear
it,
For
time
shall
never
stain,
nor
envy
tear
it.
The
friendly
Admirer
of
his
Endowments,
J.
M.
S.
An