To the Memory of Ben Jonson

As, when the vestal hearth went out, no fire Less holy than the flame that did expire Could kindle it again: so at thy fall Our wit, great Ben, is too apocryphal To celebrate the loss, since 'tis too much To write thy epitaph, and not be such. What thou wert, like th' hard oracles of old, Without an extasy cannot be told. We must be ravish'd first, thou must infuse Thyself into us, both the theme and Muse: Else (though we all conspir'd to make thy hearse Our works) so that 't had been but one great verse, Though the priest had translated for that time The Liturgy, and bury'd thee in rhyme, So that in metre we had heard it said, Poetic dust is to poetic laid: And though, that dust being Shakespeare's, thou might'st have Not his room, but the poet for thy grave; So that, as thou didst prince of numbers die, And live, so now thou might'st in numbers lie, 'T were frail solemnity; verses on thee, And not like thine, would but kind libels be; And we (not speaking thy whole worth) should raise Worse blots than they that envied thy praise. Indeed, thou need'st us not, since, above all Invention, thou wert thine own funeral. Hereafter, when time hath fed on thy tomb, Th' inscription worn out, and the marble dumb; So that 't would pose a critic to restore Half words, and words expir'd so long before; When thy maim'd statue hath a sentenc'd face, And looks that are the horror of the place, That 't will be learning and antiquity, And ask a Selden to say, This was thee, Thou 'lt have a whole name still, nor need'st thou fear That will be ruin'd, or lose nose or hair. Let others write so thin, that they can't be Authors till rotten, no posterity Can add to thy works; th' had their whole growth then When first born, and came aged from thy pen. Whilst living thou enjoy'dst the fame and sense Of all that time gives, but the reverence. When thou 'rt of Homer's years, no man will say Thy Poems are less worthy, but more gray: 'Tis bastard-poetry, and o' th' false blood Which can't without succession be good. Things that will always last do thus agree With things eternal; they' at once perfect be. Scorn then their censures, who gave 't out, thy wit As long upon a comedy did sit As elephants bring forth; and that thy blots And mendings took more time than Fortune plots: That such thy drought was, and so great thy thirst, That all thy plays were drawn at th' Mermaid first: That the king's yearly butt wrote, and his wine Hath more right than thou to thy Catiline. Let such men keep a diet, let their wit Be rack'd, and while they write, suffer a fit. When they 've felt tortures which out-pain the gout, Such, as with less, the state draws treason out; Though they should the length of consumptions lie Sick of their verse, and of their poem die, 'Twould not be thy worst scene, but would at last Confirm their boastings, and shew made in haste. He that writes well, writes quick, since the rule 's true, Nothing is slowly done, that's always new. So when thy Fox had ten times acted been, Each day was first, but that 't was cheaper seen. And so thy Alchymist play'd o'er and o'er Was new o' th' stage when 't was not at the door. We, like the actors, did repeat; the pit The first time saw, the next conceiv'd thy wit: Which was cast in those forms, such rules, such arts, That but to some not half thy acts were parts: Since of some silken judgments we may say, They fill'd a box two hours, but saw no play. So that th' unlearned lost their money, and Scholars sav'd only, that could understand. Thy scene was free from monsters, no hard plot Call'd down a God t' unty th' unlikely knot. The stage was still a stage, two entrances Were not two parts o' th' world, disjoin'd by seas. Thine were land tragedies, no prince was found To swim a whole scene out, then o' th' stage drown'd; Pitch'd fields, as Red bull wars, still felt thy doom, Thou said'st no sieges to the music-room; Nor would'st allow to thy best comedies Humours that should above the people rise: Yet was thy language and thy style so high, Thy sock to th' ancle, buskin reach'd to th' thigh; And both so chaste, so 'bove dramatic clean, That we both safely saw, and liv'd thy scene. No foul loose line did prostitute thy wit, Thou wrot'st thy comedies, did'st not commit. We did the vice arraign'd not tempting hear, And were made judges, not bad parts by th' ear. For thou ev'n sin didst in such words array, That some who came bad parts, went out good play. Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the age Still acted, which grew innocent from th' stage. 'Tis true thou hadst some sharpness, but thy salt Serv'd but with pleasure to reform the fault. Men were laugh'd into virtue, and none more Hated Face acted than were such before. So did thy sting not blood, but humours draw, So much doth satire more correct than law; Which was not nature in thee, as some call Thy teeth, who say thy wit lay in thy gall: That thou didst quarrel first, and then, in spight, Didst 'gainst a person of such vices write: That 'twas revenge, not truth; that on the stage Carlo was not presented, but thy rage: And that, when thou in company wert met, Thy meat took notes, and thy discourse was net. We know thy free vein had this innocence, To spare the party, and to brand th' offence. And the just indignation thou wert in Did not expose Shift, but his tricks and ginn. Thou might'st have us'd th' old comic freedom; these Might have seen themselves play'd, like Socrates. Like Cleon, Mammon might the knight have been, If, as Greek authors, thou hadst turn'd Greek spleen; And hadst not chosen rather to translate Their learning into English, not their rate: Indeed this last, if thou hadst been bereft Of thy humanity, might be call'd theft. The other was not; whatsoe'er was strange Or borrow'd in thee did grow thine by th' change; Who without Latin helps hadst been as rare As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shakspeare were: And, like them, from thy native stock could'st say, Poets and Kings are not born every day.