To the Memory of My Beloved

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,Latin

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;

While I confess thy writings to be such

As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.

’Tis true, and all men’s suffrage. But these ways

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;

For seeliest Ignorance on these may light,

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;

Or blind Affection, which doth ne’er advance

The truth, but gropes and urgeth all by chance;

Or crafty Malice might pretend this praise,

And think to ruin where it seem’d to raise.

These are as some infamous bawd or whore

Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?

But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,

Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need.

I, therefore, will begin. Soul 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 lie

A little further, to make thee a room:

Thou art a monument without a tomb,

And art alive still, while thy book doth live,

And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;

I mean, with great but disproportion’d Muses.

For, if I thought my judgment were of years,

I should commit thee, surely, with thy peers.

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,

Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line.

And though thou hadst small and less Greek,

From thence, to honour thee, I would not seek

For names: but call forth thund’ring Aeschylus,

Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead

To life again, to hear thy buskin tread

And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,

Leave thee alone, for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome

Sent forth; or since did from their ashes come.

Triumph, my Britain! Thou hast one to show

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 warm

Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.

Nature herself was proud of his designs,

And joy’d to wear the dressing of his lines,

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;

But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature’s family.

Yet must I not give Nature all! Thy art,

My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.

For though the Poet’s 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’ anvil, turn the same

(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame;

Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn!

For a good Poet’s made as well as born;

And such wert thou! Look how the father’s face

Lives in his issue; even so, the race

Of Shakespeare’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’d at the eyes of Ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight 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 cheer the drooping stage;

Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn’d like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light.