Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent

Vpon Master WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, the Deceased Authour, and his POEMS.

POets are borne not made, when I would prove This truth, the glad rememberance I must love Of never dying Shakespeare, who alone, Is argument enough to make that one. First, that he was a Poet none would doubt, That heard th'applause of what he sees set out Imprinted; where thou hast (I will not say) Reader his Workes for to contrive a Play: To him twas none) the patterne of all wit, Art without Art unparaleld as yet. Next Nature onely helpt him, for looke thorow This whole Booke, thou shalt find he doth not borrow, One phrase from Greekes, nor Latines imitate, Nor once from vulgar Languages Translate, Nor Plagiari-like from others gleane, Nor begges he from each witty friend a Scene To peece his Acts with, all that he doth write,

Is pure his owne, plot, language exquisite, But oh! what praise more powerfull can we give The dead, then that by him the Kings men live, His Players, which should they but have shar'd the Fate, All else expir'd within the short Termes date; How could the Globe have prospered, since through want Of change, the Plaies and Poems had growne scant. But happy Verse thou shalt be sung and heard, When hungry quills shall be such honour bard. Then vanish upstart Writers to each Stage, You needy Poetasters of this Age, Where Shakespeare liv'd or spake, Vermine forbeare, Least with your froth you spot them, come not neere; But if you needs must write, if poverty So pinch, that otherwise you starve and die, On Gods name may the Bull or Cockpit have Your lame blancke Verse, to keepe you from the grave: Or let new Fortunes younger brethren see, What they can picke from your leane industry. I doe not wonder when you offer at Blacke-Friers, that you suffer: tis the fate Of richer veines, prime judgements that have far'd The worse, with this deceased man compar'd. So have I seene, when Cesar would appeare, And on the Stage at halfe-sword parley were, Brutus and Cassius: oh how the Audience, Were ravish'd, with what wonder they went thence, When some new day they would not brooke a line, Of tedious (though well laboured) Catilines; Sejanus too was irkesome, they priz'de more Honest Iago, or the jealous Moore. And though the Fox and subtill Alchimist,

Long intermitted could not quite be mist, Though these have sham'd all the Ancients, and might raise, Their Authours merit with a crowne of Bayes. Yet these sometimes, even at a friends desire Acted, have scarce defrai'd the Seacoale fire And doore-keepers: when let but Falstaffe come, Hall, Peines, the rest you scarce shall have a roome All is so pester'd: let but Beatrice And Benedicke be seene, loe in a trice The Cockpit Galleries, Boxes, all are full To heare Maluoglio that crosse garter'd Gull. Briefe, there is nothing in his wit fraught Booke, Whose sound we would not heare, on whose worth looke Like old coynd gold, whose lines in every page, Shall passe true currant to succeeding age. But why doe I dead Sheakspeares praise recite, Some second Shakespeare must of Shakespeare write; For me tis needlesse, since an host of men, Will pay to clap his praise, to free my Pen.

Leon. Digges.