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 give 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; even 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 light it were
To ſee thee in our waters yet appeare,
And make thoſe flights upon the bankes of Thames,
That ſo did take Eliza, and our Iames!
But ſtay, I ſee thee in the Hemiſphere
Aduane'd, and made a Conſtellation there!
Shine forth thou Starre of Poets, and with rage,
or influence chide or cheere the drooping Stage;
Which, ſince thy flight fro hence, hath mourn'd like night,
And deſpaires day, but for thy Volumes light.
