On Ben Jonson

I SEE that wreath, which doth the wearer arm 'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm To keep off Death's pale dart: for, Jonson, then Thou hadst been number'd still with living men: Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade, Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many votaries that come To offer up their garlands at thy tomb, Whilst some more lofty pens in their bright verse (Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse) Shall light the dull and thankless world to see How great a maim it suffers (wanting thee); Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I Pay meaner rites unto thy memory: And since I nought can add but in desire, Restore some sparks which leapt from thine own fire.

What ends soever other quills invite, I can protest, it was no itch to write, Nor any vain ambition to be read, But merely love and justice to the dead, Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring, To whose most rich and fruitful head we owe The purest streams of language which can flow. For 'tis but truth; thou taught'st the ruder age To speak by grammar; and reform'dst the stage: Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense, A Lucrece might have heard without offence. Amongst these soaring wits that did dilate Our English, and advance it to the rate And value it now holds, thyself was one Help'd lift it up to such proportion, That thus refin'd and rob'd it shall not spare With the full Greek or Latin to compare. For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state? Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine, From Chapman's pen, and from thy Catiline.

All I would ask for thee, in recompence Of thy successful toil, and time's expence, Is only this poor boon: that those who can Perhaps read French, or talk Italian, Or do the lofty Spaniard affect, (To shew their skill in foreign dialect) Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise They therefore should their mother-tongue despise (As if her poets both for style and wit, Not equal'd, or not pass'd their best that writ) Until by studying Jonson they have known The height, and strength, and plenty of their own. Thus in what low earth, or neglected room, So e'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb. Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'd With thine own flowers, and feel thyself renew'd; Whilst thy immortal, never-withering bays Shall yearly flourish in thy reader's praise. And when more spreading titles are forgot, Or, spite of all their lead and sear-cloth, rot; Thou wrapt and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie A relick fam'd by all posterity.