a tombe,
And art aliue still, while thy Booke doth liue,
And we haue wits to read, and praise to giue.
That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses;
I meane with great, but disproportion'd _Muses_:
For, if I thought my iudgement were of yeeres,
I should commit thee surely with thy peeres,
And tell, how farre thou didstst our _Lily_ out-shine,
Or sporting _Kid_, or _Marlowes_ mighty line.
And though thou hadst small _Latine_, and lesse _Greeke_,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seeke
For names; but call forth thund'ring _AEschilus_,
_Euripides_, and _Sophocles_ to vs,
_Paccuuius_, _Accius_, him of _Cordoua_ dead,
To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread,
And shake a Stage: Or, when thy Sockes were on,
Leaue thee alone, for the comparison
Of all, that insolent _Greece_, or haughtie _Rome_
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my _Britaine_, thou hast one to showe,
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 warme
Our eares, or like a _Mercury_ to charme!
Nature her selfe was proud of his designes,
And ioy'd to weare the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and wouen so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other Wit.
The merry _Greeke_, tart _Aristophanes_,
Neat _Terence_, witty _Plautus_, now not please;
But antiquated, and deserted lye
As they were not of Natures family.
Yet must I not giue Nature all: Thy Art,
My gentle _Shakespeare_, must enioy a part.
For though the _Poets_ matter, Nature be,
His Art doth giue the fashion. And, that he,
Who casts to write a liuing line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Vpon the _Muses_ anuile: turne the same,
(And himselfe with it) that he thinkes to frame;
Or for the lawrell, he may gaine a scorne,
For a good _Poet's_ made, as well as borne.
And such wert thou. Looke how the fathers face
Liues in his issue, euen so, the race
Of _Shakespeares_ minde, and manners brightly shines
In his well torned, and true-filed lines:
In each of which, he seemes to shake a Lance,
As brandish't at the eyes of Ignorance.
Sweet Swan of _Auon_! what a sight it were