University of Virginia Library

Ben is deceas'd, and (by his losse) I feare
A dearth wil follow, good wit wil be dear,
What, is the Muses treasurie exhausted?
Is Tempe's well, or Aganippe wasted,
Or hath the Thespian springs no liquor left,
Is Helicon of moisture quite bereft?
Hath Phœbus (this hot Summer) drawn all dry,
Is it so low an ebbe in poetry?
That all the wit that is profest by men,
(Vnfit to beare the Inkhorne after Ben)
Are Barren now, now are their muses dumb,
Or what stupidity doth them benumb,
That no one hath the wit, the Art, the Skill,
The opportunity, or the good will
To write his Elegie, who once was such,
That of his worth they cannot write too much?
But sure ther's many wits of high account,
That able are, but have no mind to mount
So high a pitch as his high worth requires,
Whose lofty straines were of immortall fires.
Their good wits may (ill) under-doe his fame,
Their best wits cannot over-do the same.
Then since the Muses, and Thessalian mountaines
Are barren, and the poore Pegasean fountaines
Are drye, yet noble Thames so farre excels
Those Mounts, and Founts, and rare supposed Wels,
That I her Poet, am emboldned here,
To be Ben Ionsons artlesse Chauntecleere.
But as the purest gold unto the eye,
Shines brightest, when course metall standeth nigh,
So he (by me that am his foyle or shade)
Is more illustrated and brighter made.
Minervae's statue did most faire appeare,
When fowle Medusaes Image did stand neere.
He was our Homer, Maro, and our Naso,
Our Persius, Lucan, Petrurch, and our Tasso,
He was to us for state or recreation,
As those, or any Poet to his nation.
His playes were labours, of Herculean perill,
Which every wit applauded (but the Sterill)
His workes were playes to please a learned eare,
And intricate to understand and Beare:
His Masques exprest his Iudgement was not weake,
In making Hils, rocks, stones and rivers speake,
And like old Orpheus, risen from his trance,
He oftentimes made Trees and Beasts to dance.
His workes were Art, his art was Sence and braine,
His braine was his revenue, and his gaine
Was as a Poets should be, words and wind,
Some good, some bad, as Censure was inclin'd.
Many have read him, prais'd him and disprais'd him,
And (in their humours) cast him downe or rais'd him,
When some that in their Iudgements were too hot,
Although they read him, understood him not,
And sure twas more than he was bound to doe,
To find them wit and understanding too,
Yet was he not selfe-will'd, opinionate,
Nor did he wisemens censures under-rate,
But alwayes with discretion would submit
To better Iudgements, but when Monsieur Wit,
(Shallow in Braine, more shallow in conceit)
Arts Zany, and a Poets counterfeit,
When such as those did screw their Iawes awry,
And mangle his inventions Scurvily,
His scorne and slight contempt, was all their shares,
Disdaining still to set his wit to theirs,
Esteeming Sottish ignorance and pride
Not worth his anger, he would such deride.
Indeed his writings were so farre exceeding,
That they were not for every common reading,
Yet he wrote English, but 'twas farre refin'd,
Beyond the apprehension of each Hinde;
He could not be (by ignorance) discern'd,
For whoso read Ben Ionson, must be learn'd:
His Cynthia's Revels, and his Poetaster
(Pieces of Art) declares him his Arts Master:
His Romane Catilines conspiracie
Describes much Learning, Wit, and Industry,
Romes great Sejanus shews the pompe and Port
Of Rome, the Senate, and Tiberius Court.
His Fox, his Alchymist, his Silent-Woman,
Are things uncapeable to wit that's common:
His plaies of mens strange humours out, and in,
Approved good applaudity did win,
His Beggars bush was written so acute,
It angred envy, and strook Malice mute;
These (in despight of mischievous detraction)
Were his, and bravely were explain'd in action,
By such experienc'd practis'd knowing men,
Whose parallels will never act agen.
For action is the body of good wit,
And good invention is the Soule of it.
His play of Barthol. Faire gave much delight
To all, but such as understood not right,
His Loadstone or Magnetique Lady fail'd him,
For which detraction round about assayl'd him,
Forgetting all he had wrote well before,
Spreading abroad his errors much the more.
Had each one in his owne particular
Knowne themselves men, and to be apt to erre;
They in their wits possession, or reversion,
Had never cast on him a bad Aspersion.
But such mens muses have the Laske, I think,
And must be casting Gall, or squirting Inke,
Till Woodcocks have no Bills, nor Gudgeons gils,
These hot Pendragonists will dart their quils
As sharpe as Bristles, shot from Porcupines,
They shoote their venemous invective lines.
These lines are intricate perhaps to some.
But best of Iudgement know from whence they come.
His Epigrams were witty, quick and quaint,
Which Vice or Vertue did in Colours paint,
Wherein the bad were nip'd, the good were prais'd,
The Gull describ'd, the foole and wise imblaz'd.
A lying rumour up and downe doth run,
Reporting that he was a Bricklayers Sonne,
Which if 'twere true were no disgrace or scorne,
For famous Virgil in a ditch was borne,
And many men of meane obscure degree,
Have risen to the height of Soveraignty.
But leaving those to proove report a lyer,
A reverend Preacher was Ben Ionsons Sire,
Who finding his innated inclination
To learned studies, gave him education,
Being well initiated with his Father,
That he the rules of grammar gan to gather,
He (in paternall love) most carefully,
Sent him up to the university,
Where nature mixt with art so fluent wroght
That he learn'd faster than his tutor taught,
And by his owne industrie he did gaine
More then his study ever could attaine,
For why, 'tis nature onely makes a Poet,
And hee's a natural that wil not know it.
His Father left this mortall pilgrimage,
And dy'd when Ben was 17 yeers of age,
And then twas noted, though his yeeres were greene,
His wit was grave, like one of twice seventeene.
His ingenuity was solid, Steady,
Not rash, or flash, Dogmaticall or heady.
Thus in his Prime time, when his wit was prime,
His mother chanc'd to match the second time,
She chang'd her copy with more haste than speed,
And married with a Bricklayer indeed.
Then did his Father in law, (as most men) deem
Of Learning in a beggerly esteeme,
That Arts, and Sciences were poore and bare,
That Greeke and Latine were despised ware.
He therefore did command his Stepson Ben,
From learned studies to come home agen,
Whom he would straight instruct in such a way,
To worke and live and thrive another day.
Then was he forc'd to leave the Academ,
And lay by Learning (that unvalued Iem)
Beholde a Metamorphosis most strange,
His Books were turn'd to Bricks, a suddaine change,
The like was never seene since the creation,
Papers transform'd to Stones, (a hard translation)
He from his decent Scholars suit Nonsuited,
His habit all with lime and sand polluted,
His writing pen a Trowel, and his reading
Was joyning Brickbatts close, and morter spreading.
Thus was he made a Bricklayer 'gainst his will,
And was exact in Geometrick skill.
VVhereby he well knew Architectures grounds,
In pedestals, in Angles, Squares, or Roundes,
In Altitude, in Longitude, in Latitude,
In Pulchritude, in Amplitude, and Magnitude,
Yet though he to that trade was hard confin'd,
He had more lofty study in his mind,
Vrania, Clio, sweet Terpsichore,
Thalia, Calliope, Melpomene,
Euterpe, and Erata, Polyhymnie,
The thought of these o're-top'd the highest Chimney,
That e're was built of Lime, or Bricke, or Stone,
These were the Sacred Nine he built upon;
And they embrac'd his love, infus'd his braines,
With heavenly raptures and transcendent strayns,
That by their influences, learned Ben,
Layd by the Trowel, Bricks turn'd Books agen.
Since to the glory of great Britaines Ile,
He those forenamed workes did well compile,
Inimitable, pithy, so profound,
That through all Christendome he is renown'd.
I may compare him to a candle right,
That wastes himselfe in giving others light,
The world blame not to dote, the cause of it
Is, when she lost him, then she lost her wit.
But though his corps within his grave be pent,
His workes are his immortall Monument,
They shall out weare Tombes made of Brasse or Marble
Till time shall end, his Muse shall sweetly warble.
Alive, he was Arts Master in discourse,
And Dead, his Writings are as much in force.
Ther's some will prate, and talk more than they know,
That the producements of his braine was slow.
Such men of we ghty writings doe misdeeme,
Tis onely number, highly they esteeme,
But let those know his lines were so compacted,
Of much maturity of Wit extracted,
So full of lofty and deepe sounding sence,
(Th'extraction of Apolloes quintessence)
So grave, so learned, so acute, so pure,
That though they tearm'd him slow, he still was sure.
He serv'd two Kings, with good integrity,
From whose free grace and liberality,
He had a Royall pension, and true pay,
Which still he spent before the quarter day.
For he was no close fisted usurer,
No Mammons man, no base extortioner,
He lov'd not gold and silver, and almost,
It lov'd him so, that still no love was lost,
A Cup of Sack he lov'd, (or Aristippus)
Which was to him as good as Aganippus,
He had a Poets kingdome in his mind,
But in that Kingdom he could never find,
One aker that could yeeld him any crop,
(For all his land was on Parnassus Top.)
And sure that mountaine is so barren now,
That scarce a Bunch of Turneps there doth grow,
Mecænas dyed, and few heires behinde,
And Poets (like Camelions) live by wind.
And noble Ben, whilst thou on earth didst live,
Thou my poore muse encouragement didst give,
For which in humble duty to expresse,
The manifesting of my thankfulnesse,
In love to thee and to thy memory,
I consecrate this poore pen'd Elegie,
If ought be well writ here, 'tis not my muse,
But tis thy Genius, that did me infuse,
VVhereby blind ignorance may know and see,
He cannot want a Muse that writes of thee,
Thou liv'dst here sixty five yeeres (full of dayes)
Belov'd, and well approv'd, in good mens praise,
And at thy death, thy Faith such hold did lay,
Vpon thy Saviour which shall nere decay.
Thy life was laudable, thy death was fair,
Thy dust to dust, with honour did repaire,
To Westminster, Cathedrall, where it lyes,
Till (wakened by the dreadfull Trump) it rise,
And repossesse thy blest immortal spirit,
VVhere both (united) glory may inherit.
Till then shall thy Effigies (carv'd in stone)
Stand with learn'd Camden, and with Causabon,
Where Chaucer (Englands Homer) is interr'd,
Where Spencer (our Arch-Poet) is prefer'd,
And where the farre fam'd Draytons bones doe rest,
There thy memoriall hath a place possest.

Postscript.

Some few yeeres since I made a foolish vow,
That whil'st Ben Ionson liv'd I would not row.
Which Idle oath, I slothfully did keepe,
But now old Ben is in a lasting sleepe,
My vow is quit, and if I live once more,
Ile dash and dabble with my scull or Oare.
For though it be a worke, Ile boldly say,
That (for the most part) 'tis a game or play,
And whosoever playes, is sure to win
More certaine, than Gleek, Maw, or Inne and Inne.
More gainefull sweat, than can be won at Tennice,
Or by a painted Courtezan of Venice.
'Twill keepe me pot-free, or I surely think,
I more shall mind my meat, and lesse my drinke.
Thus when the weather's faire, I (now and then)
Am well dispos'd to fall to work agen.