HERRICK. From The Apparition of his Mistress calling him to Elysium. [1648 AND here we'll sit on primrose-banks, and see Behold them in a spacious theater, Among which glories (crown'd with sacred bays, Upon Master Fletcher's incomparable Plays. [1648 APOLLO sings, his harp resounds: give room, Thy pomp of plays, which thousands come to see, With admiration both of them and thee. Beaumont and Fletcher. Jonson. O volume worthy, leaf by leaf, and cover, To be with juice of cedar wash'd all over; Here words with lines, and lines with scenes consent, To raise an Act to full astonishment; Here melting numbers, words of power to move None writes love's passion in the world, like thee. His Prayer to Ben Jonson. [1648 WHEN I a verse shall make, Know I have pray'd thee For old religion's sake, Saint Ben to aid me. Make the way smooth for me, When I, thy Herrick, Honouring thee, on my knee Offer my Lyric. Candles I'll give to thee, And a new altar; And thou Saint Ben, shalt be Writ in my psalter. Ah Ben! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the triple Tun? Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad; Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again : Or send to us, Thy wit's great over-plus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it Lest we that talent spend, And having once brought to an end That precious stock; the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. A Bacchanalian Verse. FILL me a mighty bowl Unto my Jonson's soul. Jonson. Jonson. THOU had'st the wreath before, now take the tree Upon Ben Jonson. HERE lies Jonson with the rest Of the Poets; but the best. [1648 Reader, would'st thou more have known? Ask his story, not this stone. That will speak what this can't tell Of his glory. So farewell. Upon Mr. Ben Jonson. AFTER the rare arch-poet died, [1648 The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride Each like a poor and pitied widowhood. The Cirque profaned was; and all postures rackt : squeak, Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak: No holy rage, or frantic fire did stir, Or flash about the spacious theater. No clap of hands, or shout, or praises-proof |