Page 14
Upon
the
Lines
and
Life
of
the
Famous
Scenick
Poet
M
R.
WILLIAM
SHAKESPEAR.
T
Hose
hands,
which
you
so
clapt,
go
now
and
wring
You
Britains
brave;
for
done
are
Shakespear's
days;
His
days
are
done,
that
made
the
dainty
Plays,
Which
made
the
Globe
of
Heav’n
and
Earth
to
ring.
Dry’d
is
that
Vein,
dry'd
is
the
Thespian
Spring,
Turn’d
all
to
tears,
and
Phebus
Clouds
his
Rays
;
That
Corps,
that
Coffin
now
bestick
those
Bays,
Which
crown’d
him
Poet
first,
then
Poets
King.
If
Tragedies
might
any
Prologue
have,
All
those
he
made,
would
scarce
make
one
to
this
;
Where
Fame;
now
that
he
gone
is
to
the
Grave,
(Deaths
publick
Tyring-house)
the
Nuncius
is.
For
though
his
Line
of
Life
went
soon
about,
The
Life
yet
of
his
Lines
shall
never
out.
Hugh
Holland.
A
N
On
the
admirable
Dramatick
Poet,
WILLIAM
SHAKESPEAR.
W
Hat
need
my
Shakespear
for
his
honour’d
bones,
The
labour
of
an
Age,
in
piled
stones,
Or
that
his
hallow’d
Reliques
should
be
hid
Under
a
Starry-pointing
Pyramid
?
Dear
Son
of
Memory,
great
Heir
of
Fame,
What
needst
thou
such
dull
witness
of
thy
Name?
Thou
in
our
wonder
and
astonishment
Hast
built
thy
self
a
lasting
Monument:
For
whilst
to
th’
shame
of
slow-endeavouring
Art,
Thy
easie
numbers
flow
,
and
that
each
part,
Hath
from
the
leaves
of
thy
unvalued
Book,
Those
Delphick
Lines
with
deep
Impression
took.
Then
thou
our
fancy
of
her
self
bereaving,
Dost
make
us
Marble
with
too
much
conceiving,
And
so
Sepulcher'd
in
such
pomp
dost
lie,
That
Kings
for
such
a
Tomb
would
wish
to
die.
epitaph