Annuls this world, to recompense it, shall Make and name them th' elixir of this all. They say the sea, when th' earth it gains, loseth too;

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If carnal Death, the younger brother, do
Usurp the body; our soul, which subject is
To th' elder Death by sin, is free by this;
They perish both, when they attempt the just;
For graves our trophies are, and both Death's
dust.

So, unobnoxious now, she hath buried both; 35
For none to death sins, that to sin is loath,"
Nor do they die, which are not loath to die;
So she hath this and that virginity.
Grace was in her extremely diligent,

That kept her from sin, yet made her repent. 40
Of what small spots pure white complains!
Alas!

How little poison cracks a crystal glass!
She sinn'd, but just enough to let us see
That God's word must be true,-all sinners be.
So much did zeal her conscience rarify,
That extreme truth lack'd little of a lie,
Making omissions acts; laying the touch

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Of sin on things, that sometimes may be such.
As Moses' cherubims, whose natures do
Surpass all speed, by him are winged too,
So would her soul, already in heaven, seem then
To climb by tears the common stairs of men.
How fit she was for God, I am content

To speak, that Death his vain haste may repent;

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Thus to use myself in jest,

(Sometimes called "Upon Parting from his Mistris," written, 1612?)

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,

Whilst some of their sad friends do say,

"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No;"

So let us melt, and make no noise,

No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; "Twere profanation of our joys,

To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harm and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;

But trepidations of the spheres,
Though greater far, are innocent.

Dull sublunary Lovers' love,

(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence; for that it doth remove

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Those things which elemented it.

Thus by feigned death to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way.
Then fear not me;
But believe that I shall make
Hastier journeys, since I take

More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,

That, if good fortune fall, Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall.

But come bad chance,

And we join to it our strength, And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us t' advance.

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When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st no wind, 25 But sigh'st my soul away;

When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,

My life's-blood doth decay.

It cannot be

That thou lov'st me as thou say'st, 30
If in thine my life thou waste
That art the best of me.

Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we

Are but turned aside to sleep:
They, who one another keep

Alive, ne'er parted be.

SONNET X.-ON DEATH

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Ben Jonson

1573-1637

169

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US

(From First Folio edition of Shakespeare, 1623) To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these

ways

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Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.
But thou art proof against them and, indeed, 15
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My SHAKESPEARE, rise! I will not lodge thee by1
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
Thou art alive still while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so my brain excuses,- 25
I mean with great but disproportioned Muses;
For if I thought my judgment were of years,2
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30
And though thou hadst small Latin and less
Greek,

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From thence to honour thee I would not seek For names, but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,4

Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin 5 tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for a comparison

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Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 41 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.

1 Chaucer, Spenser and Beaumont are buried near each other in the Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey. Proximity to the tomb of Chaucer, the first great English poet, was considered as a great honor. Spenser bad been granted this in 1599, and Beaumont in 1616.

2 One that would last, or go down to posterity. A satirical play upon the dramatist's name, since Thomas Kyd was anything but "Sporting," being chiefly known as the author of tragedies.

The three great poets, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, represent three stages in the development of the Greek tragic drama; so Pacurius, Accius, and "him of Cordova" (Seneca) stand in a similar manner for Roman tragedy-writing at successive epochs.

The ancients are summoned to hear Shakespeare both as a tragic and a comic writer; the buskin, or shoe worn by Greek and Roman actors in tragedy, stands for tragedy; as the sock worn for comedy, means comedy.

He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.

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And such wert thou! Look, how the father's face

Lives in his issue, even so the race

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Or leave a kiss within the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines

In his well turnèd and true filed lines,

I would not change for thine.

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But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were to run by her side,

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Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear, when day did close;

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Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Through swords, through seas, whither she

would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light

All that Love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!

1 Plain, or unadorned, in thy neatness, the phrase is from Horace's ode to Pyrrha (Odes, Lib. I. Car. V.).

1 Jonson thus explains the title Underwoods, which consists of a collection of comparatively short poems on various subjects: "As the multitude called Timber-trees promiscuously growing, a Wood, or Forest; so I am bold to entitle these lesser poems of later growth by this name of Underwood." Preface "To the Reader."

From that place the Morn is broke

To that place Day doth unyoke!

SONG OF THE PRIEST OF PAN

(From the same)

Shepherds all, and maidens fair
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;

See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from under ground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom:

1 Starling.

Round-dance.

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