J. Cleaveland revived poems, orations, epistles, and other of his genuine incomparable pieces never before publisht : with some other exquisite remains of the most eminent wits ... that were his contemporaries.

An Elegie upon Ben. Johnson.

AS when the Vestal hearth went out, no fire Lesse holy then that flame that did expire Could kindle it again: so at thy fall Our wits, great Ben, are too Apocryphall To celebrate thy losse, since 'tis too much To write thy Epitaph, and not be such. What thou wert, like th'hard oracles of old, Without an extasie cannot be told. We must be ravisht first, thou must infuse Thy self into us both the Theam and Muse: Else, (though we all conspir'd to make thy herse Our works) so that 't had been but one great Verse, Though the Priest had translated for that time The Liturgy, and buried thee in Rhime, So that in Meeter we had heard it said Poetick dust is to Poetick laid: And though that dust being Shake-spears thou might'st have Not his room, but the Poet for thy grave,

So that as thou didst Prince of numbers die And live, so thou mightest in numbers lie, 'Twere frail solemnity; Verses on thee And not like thine, would but kind Libels be. And we (not speaking thy whole worth) should raise Worse blot•• then they that envied thy praise. Indeed thou need'st us not, since above all Invention, thou wert thine own funeral. Hereafter, when time hath fed on thy Tombe, Th' inscription worn out, and the Marble dumb So that 'twould pose a Critick to restore Half words, and words expir'd so long before; When thy maym'd statue hath a sentenc'd face And looks that are the horror of the place; That 't will be learnings and Antiquity, And ask a Selden to say, this was thee Thou'••t have a whole name still, nor need'st thou fear That will be ruin'd, or loose nose, or hair. Let others write so thin, that they can't be then, Authors till rotten, no posterity Can add to thy works; th' had their full growth, When first born, and came aged from thy pen, Whil'st living thou enjoy'dst the fame & sence Of all that time gives but the reverence: When th'art of Homers years, no man will say Thy Poems are lesse worthy, but more gray. Tis bastard poetry and oth' false bloud Which cann't without succession be good,

Things that will alwayes last do thus agree VVith things eternal; th' at once perfect be. Scorn then their censures, who gave out, thy wit As long upon a Comoedie dit sit As Elephants bring forth; and that by blots And mendings, took more time then fortune plots, That such thy drought was, & so great thy thirst That all thy plays were drawn at th' Mearmaid first, That the Kings yearly but wore, and his vvine Hath more right then thou to thy Catiline, Let such men keep a diet, let their wit Be rackt, and while they write, suffer a fit; VVhen th' have felt tortures without pain the Gout, Such, as with less, the state draws treason out; Though they should the length of Consumptionslie Sick of their Verse, and of their Poem die, 'Twould not be thy worst scene, but would at last Confirm their boastings, and shew made in hast, He that writes well writes quick, since the rule's true, Nothing is slowly done that's alwayes new; So when thy Fox had ten times acted been, Each day was first, but that 't was cheaper seen, And so thy Alchymist plaid ore and ore, Was new o'th stage, when 't was not at the dore; VVe like the Actors did repeat, the pit The first time saw, the next conceiv'd thy wit,

VVhich was cast in those forms, such rules, such Arts, That but to some not half thy acts were parts, Since of some silken judgements we may say They fild a box two hours, but saw no play: So that th' unlearned lost their money, and Scholars say'd onely, that could understand: Thy scene was free from monsters, no hard plot Cal'd down a god t' untyth' unlikely knot. The stage was still a stage, two entrances VVere not two parts, oth' vvorld disjoyn'd by th' Seas; Thine were Land-Tragedies, no Prince was found To swim a whole scene out, then oth' stage drown'd Pitcht fields, as Red bull vvars, still felt thy doom. Thou laid'st no siedges to the Musick room, Nor wouldst alow to thy best Comedies Humours that should above the people rise; Yet was thy language and thy stile so high Thy sock to th' ancle, busk in reach't to th' thigh; And both so chast, so 'bove Dramatick clean That we both safely saw, and liv'd thy scene; No foul loose line did prostitute thy wit, Thou wrot'st thy Comoedies, didst not commit, We did the vice araign'd, not tempting hear, And were made Judges, not bad part•• by th' ear,

For thou even sin did'st in such words array, That some, who came bad parts, went out good play, Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the age Still acted, which grew innocent from th' stage. Tis true thou hadst some sharpnesse, but thy salt Serv'd but with pleasure to reform the fault, Men were laugh'd into vertue, and none more Hated fool acted, then were such before, So did thy sting not bloud but humours draw, So much did Satyre more correct then Law, Which was not nature in thee, as some call Thy teeth, who say thy wit lay in thy Gall, That thou did'st quarrel first, and then inspight Did'st 'gainst a person of such vices write That 'twas revenge, not truth, that on the stage Carlo was not presented, but thy rage; And that when thou in Company wert met Thy meat took notes, and thy discourse was net, We know thy free vein had this innocence To spare the party, and to brand th' offence, And the just indignation thou wert in Did not expose shift but his tricks and gin, Thou might'st have us'd th' old Comick free∣dom, these Might have seen themselves plaid, like Socrates, Like Cleon Mammon might the Knight have been, If as Greek Authors, thou had'st turn'd Greek spleen.

And had'st not chosen rather to translate Their learning into English, not their rate, Indeed this last if thou had'st been bereft Of thy humanity, might be call'd theft, The other was not, whatsoe'r was strange, Or borrowed in thee did grow thine by th' change, Who without Lattin helps hadst been as rare As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shak-spear were, And like them, from thy Native stock could'st say Poets and Kings are not born every day.