Comedies, Tragi-comedies, With other Poems by Mr William Cartwright ... The Ayres and Songs set by Mr Henry Lawes |
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To the Memory of Ben Johnson. Laureat.
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 | Comedies, Tragi-comedies, With other Poems |  |
To the Memory of Ben Johnson. Laureat.
Father of Poets, though thine own great Day
Struck from thy Self, scorns that a weaker wray
Should twine in Lustre with it, yet my flame
Kindled from thine, flies upward towards thy name:
For in the acclamation of the less
There's Piety, though from it no access:
And though my ruder Thoughts make me of those
Who hide and Cover what they should disclose,
Yet where the Lustre's such, he makes it seen
Better to some that draws the Veyl between.
Struck from thy Self, scorns that a weaker wray
Should twine in Lustre with it, yet my flame
Kindled from thine, flies upward towards thy name:
For in the acclamation of the less
There's Piety, though from it no access:
312
Who hide and Cover what they should disclose,
Yet where the Lustre's such, he makes it seen
Better to some that draws the Veyl between.
And what can more be hop'd, since that divine
Free filling Spirit takes it's flight with thine?
Men may have Fury, but no Raptures now,
Like Witches Charm, yet not know whence, nor how,
And through distemper grown not strong, but fierce,
Instead of writing, only Rave in Verse;
Which when by thy Laws judg'd, 'twill be confess'd
'Twas not to be inspir'd, but be possest.
Free filling Spirit takes it's flight with thine?
Men may have Fury, but no Raptures now,
Like Witches Charm, yet not know whence, nor how,
And through distemper grown not strong, but fierce,
Instead of writing, only Rave in Verse;
Which when by thy Laws judg'd, 'twill be confess'd
'Twas not to be inspir'd, but be possest.
Where shall we find a Muse like thine, that can
So well present, and shew Man unto Man,
That each one finds his Twin, and thinks thy Art
Extends not to the Gestures, but the Heart?
VVhere one so shewing life to life, that we
Think thou taught'st Custome, and not Custome thee;
Manners were Themes, and to thy Scenes still flow
In the same Stream, and are their Comments now;
These Times thus living o'r thy Models, we
Think them not so much VVit, as Prophecie;
And though we know the Character, may and swear
A Sybils finger hath been bufie there.
Things Common thou speak'st proper, which though known
For publike, stamp'd by Thee, grow thence thine own;
Thy thought's so Ord'red, so express'd, that we
Conclude that thou did'st nor discourse, but see:
Language so master'd, that thy numerous feet
Laden with genuine words do alwaies meet
Each in his Art, nothing unfit doth fall,
Shewing the Poet, like the wise men, All.
Thine equall skill thus wresting nothing, made
Thy Pen seem not so much to write, as Trade.
So well present, and shew Man unto Man,
That each one finds his Twin, and thinks thy Art
Extends not to the Gestures, but the Heart?
VVhere one so shewing life to life, that we
Think thou taught'st Custome, and not Custome thee;
Manners were Themes, and to thy Scenes still flow
In the same Stream, and are their Comments now;
These Times thus living o'r thy Models, we
Think them not so much VVit, as Prophecie;
And though we know the Character, may and swear
A Sybils finger hath been bufie there.
Things Common thou speak'st proper, which though known
For publike, stamp'd by Thee, grow thence thine own;
Thy thought's so Ord'red, so express'd, that we
Conclude that thou did'st nor discourse, but see:
Language so master'd, that thy numerous feet
Laden with genuine words do alwaies meet
Each in his Art, nothing unfit doth fall,
Shewing the Poet, like the wise men, All.
Thine equall skill thus wresting nothing, made
Thy Pen seem not so much to write, as Trade.
313
That life, that Venus of all Things, which we
Conceive or shew, proportion'd Decency,
Is not found scatt'red in thee here or there,
But like the Soul is wholly every where;
No strange perplexed maze doth pass for plot,
Thou alwaies dost unty, not cut the Knot:
Thy Labyrinth's doors are open'd by one Thread
VVhich tyes and runs through all that's done or said;
No Power comes down wish learned Hat or Rod,
VVit only and Contrivance is thy God.
Conceive or shew, proportion'd Decency,
Is not found scatt'red in thee here or there,
But like the Soul is wholly every where;
No strange perplexed maze doth pass for plot,
Thou alwaies dost unty, not cut the Knot:
Thy Labyrinth's doors are open'd by one Thread
VVhich tyes and runs through all that's done or said;
No Power comes down wish learned Hat or Rod,
VVit only and Contrivance is thy God.
'Tis easie to gild Gold, there's small skill spent
VVhere ev'n the first rude Mass is Ornament;
Thy Muse took harder Metals, purg'd and boyl'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beat, and toyl'd,
Sifted the Dross, fyl'd Roughness, then gave dress,
Vexing rude Subjects into Comeliness;
Be it thy Glory then that we may say,
Thou run'st where th' foot was hind'red by the way.
VVhere ev'n the first rude Mass is Ornament;
Thy Muse took harder Metals, purg'd and boyl'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beat, and toyl'd,
Sifted the Dross, fyl'd Roughness, then gave dress,
Vexing rude Subjects into Comeliness;
Be it thy Glory then that we may say,
Thou run'st where th' foot was hind'red by the way.
Nor dost thou powre out, but dispence thy vein,
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertain;
Not like our VVits, who into one piece do
Throvv all that they can say and their friends too;
Pumping themselves for one Terms noise so dry
As if they made their VVils in Poetry.
And such spruce Compositions press the Stage
When men transcribe themselves, and not the Age;
Both sorts of Plays are thus like Pictures shovvn,
Thine of the Common life, theirs of their ovvn.
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertain;
Not like our VVits, who into one piece do
Throvv all that they can say and their friends too;
Pumping themselves for one Terms noise so dry
As if they made their VVils in Poetry.
And such spruce Compositions press the Stage
When men transcribe themselves, and not the Age;
Both sorts of Plays are thus like Pictures shovvn,
Thine of the Common life, theirs of their ovvn.
Thy Models yet are not so fram'd as vve
May call them Libels, and not Imag'ry;
No name on any Basis; 'tis thy skill
To strike the Vice, but spare the Person still:
As he vvho vvhen he savv the Serpent vvreath'd
About his sleeping Son, and as he breath'd,
Drink in his Soul, did so the shoot contrive,
To kill the Beast, but keep the Child alive;
So dost thou aime thy Darts, which ev'n when
They kill the Poisons, do but wake the Men.
Thy Thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy Lancings better than another's Cure;
And justly too, for th' Age grows more unsound
From the Fools Balsam, than the wise Mans wound.
May call them Libels, and not Imag'ry;
No name on any Basis; 'tis thy skill
To strike the Vice, but spare the Person still:
As he vvho vvhen he savv the Serpent vvreath'd
About his sleeping Son, and as he breath'd,
314
To kill the Beast, but keep the Child alive;
So dost thou aime thy Darts, which ev'n when
They kill the Poisons, do but wake the Men.
Thy Thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy Lancings better than another's Cure;
And justly too, for th' Age grows more unsound
From the Fools Balsam, than the wise Mans wound.
No rotten talk breaks for a laugh; no Page
Commenc'd man by th' Instructions of thy Stage;
No barganing line there; no provoc'tive Verse;
Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;
No need to make good Count'nance Ill, and Use
The Plea of strict life for a looser Muse;
No VVoman rul'd thy Quill; we can descry
No Verse born under any Cynthia's Eye;
Thy Star was Judgement only and right Sense,
Thy Self being to thy self an Influence:
Stout Beauty is thy Grace; Stern pleasures do
Present delights, but mingle horrours too:
Thy Muse doth thus like Joves fierce Girl appear,
With a fair Hand, but grasping of a Spear.
Commenc'd man by th' Instructions of thy Stage;
No barganing line there; no provoc'tive Verse;
Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;
No need to make good Count'nance Ill, and Use
The Plea of strict life for a looser Muse;
No VVoman rul'd thy Quill; we can descry
No Verse born under any Cynthia's Eye;
Thy Star was Judgement only and right Sense,
Thy Self being to thy self an Influence:
Stout Beauty is thy Grace; Stern pleasures do
Present delights, but mingle horrours too:
Thy Muse doth thus like Joves fierce Girl appear,
With a fair Hand, but grasping of a Spear.
Where are they now that cry thy Lamp did drink
More Oyl than th' Author Wine while he did think?
We do embrace their slander; thou hast writ
Not for Dispatch, but Fame; no Market wit;
'Twas not thy Care that it might pass and sel,
But that it might endure, and be done well;
Nor wouldst thou venture it unto the Ear,
Untill the File would not make smooth, but wear:
Thy Verse came season'd hence, and would not give;
Born not to feed the Author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer Judges rose a strife,
To make thee read a Classick in thy life.
Those that do hence applause, and suffrage beg,
'Cause they can Poems form upon one Leg,
Write not to time, but to the Poets Day;
There's difference between Fame and sudden pay:
These Men sing Kingdoms fals as if that Fate
Us'd the same force to a Village, and a State;
These serve Thyeste's Bloudy Supper in,
As if it had only a Sallad been;
Their Catilines are but Fencers, whose fights rise
Not to the Fame of Battell, but of Prize.
But thou still puts true Passions on; dost write
With the same Courage that tri'd Captains fight;
Giv'st the right Blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without loss of Wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough Care,
Big without swelling, without Painting fair:
They, wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,
Are not Wits, but Materials of Wit.
VVhat though thy searching Muse did rake the Dust
Of Time, and purge old Metals of their Rust?
Is it no labour, no Art, think they, to
Snatch Shipwracks from the Deep as Divers do?
And rescue Jewels from the Covetous Sand,
Making the Seas hid VVealth adorn the Land?
VVhat though thy culling Muse did rob the store
Of Greek and Latine Gardens, to bring o'r
Plants to thy Native Soyl? their Vertues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here:
If thy Still to their Essence doth refine
So many Drugs, is not the VVater thine?
Thefts thus become Just works; they and their grace
Are wholly thine; thus doth the Stamp and Face
Make that the King's that's ravish'd from the Mine;
In others then 'tis Oare, in thee 'tis Coin.
More Oyl than th' Author Wine while he did think?
We do embrace their slander; thou hast writ
Not for Dispatch, but Fame; no Market wit;
'Twas not thy Care that it might pass and sel,
But that it might endure, and be done well;
Nor wouldst thou venture it unto the Ear,
Untill the File would not make smooth, but wear:
Thy Verse came season'd hence, and would not give;
Born not to feed the Author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer Judges rose a strife,
To make thee read a Classick in thy life.
315
'Cause they can Poems form upon one Leg,
Write not to time, but to the Poets Day;
There's difference between Fame and sudden pay:
These Men sing Kingdoms fals as if that Fate
Us'd the same force to a Village, and a State;
These serve Thyeste's Bloudy Supper in,
As if it had only a Sallad been;
Their Catilines are but Fencers, whose fights rise
Not to the Fame of Battell, but of Prize.
But thou still puts true Passions on; dost write
With the same Courage that tri'd Captains fight;
Giv'st the right Blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without loss of Wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough Care,
Big without swelling, without Painting fair:
They, wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,
Are not Wits, but Materials of Wit.
VVhat though thy searching Muse did rake the Dust
Of Time, and purge old Metals of their Rust?
Is it no labour, no Art, think they, to
Snatch Shipwracks from the Deep as Divers do?
And rescue Jewels from the Covetous Sand,
Making the Seas hid VVealth adorn the Land?
VVhat though thy culling Muse did rob the store
Of Greek and Latine Gardens, to bring o'r
Plants to thy Native Soyl? their Vertues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here:
If thy Still to their Essence doth refine
So many Drugs, is not the VVater thine?
Thefts thus become Just works; they and their grace
Are wholly thine; thus doth the Stamp and Face
Make that the King's that's ravish'd from the Mine;
In others then 'tis Oare, in thee 'tis Coin.
316
Blest life of Authours, unto whom we owe
Those that we have, and those that we want too:
Th'art all so good, that reading makes thee worse,
And to have writ so well's thine onely curse.
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate
That servile base dependance upon fate:
Successe thou ne'r thoughtst vertue, nor that fit,
Which chance, and th'ages fashion did make hit;
Excluding those from life in after-time,
Who into Po'try first brought luck and rime:
Who thought the peoples breath good ayre: sty'ld name
What was but noise; and getting Briefes for fame
Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence
Made commendation a benevolence:
Thy thoughts were their owne Lawrell, and did win
That best applause of being crown'd within.
Those that we have, and those that we want too:
Th'art all so good, that reading makes thee worse,
And to have writ so well's thine onely curse.
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate
That servile base dependance upon fate:
Successe thou ne'r thoughtst vertue, nor that fit,
Which chance, and th'ages fashion did make hit;
Excluding those from life in after-time,
Who into Po'try first brought luck and rime:
Who thought the peoples breath good ayre: sty'ld name
What was but noise; and getting Briefes for fame
Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence
Made commendation a benevolence:
Thy thoughts were their owne Lawrell, and did win
That best applause of being crown'd within.
And though th'exacting age, when deeper yeeres
Had interwoven snow among thy haires,
Would not permit thou shouldst grow old, cause they
Nere by thy writings knew thee young; we may
Say justly, they're ungratefull, when they more
Condemn'd thee, cause thou wert so good before:
Thine Art was thine Arts blurre, and they'll confesse
Thy strong perfumes made them not smell thy lesse.
But, though to erre with thee be no small skill,
And we adore the last draughts of thy Quill:
Though those thy thoughts, which the now queasie age,
Doth count but clods, and refuse of the stage,
Will come up Porcelaine-wit some hundreds hence,
When there will be more manners, and more sense;
'Twas judgement yet to yeeld, and we afford
Thy silence as much fame, as once thy word:
Who like an aged oake, the leaves being gone,
Wast food before, art now religion;
Thought still more rich, though not so richly stor'd,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.
Had interwoven snow among thy haires,
Would not permit thou shouldst grow old, cause they
Nere by thy writings knew thee young; we may
Say justly, they're ungratefull, when they more
Condemn'd thee, cause thou wert so good before:
Thine Art was thine Arts blurre, and they'll confesse
Thy strong perfumes made them not smell thy lesse.
But, though to erre with thee be no small skill,
And we adore the last draughts of thy Quill:
Though those thy thoughts, which the now queasie age,
Doth count but clods, and refuse of the stage,
Will come up Porcelaine-wit some hundreds hence,
When there will be more manners, and more sense;
'Twas judgement yet to yeeld, and we afford
Thy silence as much fame, as once thy word:
Who like an aged oake, the leaves being gone,
Wast food before, art now religion;
Thought still more rich, though not so richly stor'd,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.
Great soule of numbers, whom we want and boast;
Like curing gold, most valu'd now th'art lost;
When we shall feed on refuse offalls, when
We shall from corne to akornes turne agen;
Then shall we see that these two names are one,
Johnson and Poetry, which now are gone.
Like curing gold, most valu'd now th'art lost;
When we shall feed on refuse offalls, when
We shall from corne to akornes turne agen;
Then shall we see that these two names are one,
Johnson and Poetry, which now are gone.
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