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To the memory of my beloued,
The AVTHOR
Mr. William Shakespeare:
And
what he hath left vs.
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O draw no enuy (Shakeſpeare) on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame:
While I confeſſe thy writings to be ſuch,
As neither Man, nor Muſe, can praiſe too much.
'Tis true, and all mens ſuffrage. But theſe wayes
Were not the paths I meant onto thy praiſe:
For ſeelieſt Ignorance on theſe may light,
Which, when it ſounds at beſt, but eccho's right;
Or blinde Affection , which doth ne're aduance
The truth, but gropes, and vrgeth all by chance;
Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praiſe,
And thinke to ruine, where it ſeem'd to raiſe.
Theſe are, as ſome infamous Baud, or Whore,
Should praiſe a Matron, What could hurt her more?
But thou art proofe againſt them, and indeed
Aboue th'ill fortune of them, or the need.
I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age!
The applauſe! delight! the wonder of our Stage!
My Shakeſpeare, riſe; I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenſer, or bid Beaumont lye
A little further, to make thee a roome:
Thou art a Moniment, without 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 Æſchilus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
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
