Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.

A Letter to Ben. Johnson.

DIe Iohnson, crosse not our Religion so As to be thought immortall; let us know Thou art no God; thy works make us mistake Thy person, and thy great creations make Us I doll thee, and cause we see thee do Eternall things, think thee eternall too, Restore us to our faith and dye, thy doome Will do as much good as the fall of Rome: 'Twill crush an heresie, we ne're must hope For truth till thou be gon, thou and the Pope. And though we may be certaine in thy fall To lose both wit and judgement, braines and all, Thou Sack, nor Love, nor Time recover us Better be fooles then superstitious. Dye! to what end should we thee now adore There is not Schollership to live to more, Our language is refin'd: professors doubt Their Greek and Hebrew both shall be put out And we that Latin studied have so long Shall now dispute & write in Iohnsons tongue, Nay, courtiers yeeld, & every beautious wench Had rather speak thy English then her French.

But for thy matter fancy stands agast Wondering to see her strength thus best at last. Invention stops her course and bids the world Look for no more; she hath already hurld Her treasure all on one, thou hast out-done So much our wit and expectation, That were it not for thee, we scarse had known Nature her selfe could ere so farre have gon. Dye! seemes it not enough thy verse's date Is endlesse; but thine own prolonged fate Must equall it; for shame engross not age But now (the fith act ended) leave the stage. And let us clap, we know the Stars that do Give others one sife, give a laureat two. But thou, if thus thy body long survives, Hast two eternities, and not two lives. Die for thine own sake, seest thou not thy praise Is shortned onely by this length of daies. Men may talk this, and that, to part the strife, My tenet is, thou hast no fault but life. Old Authors do speed best, me-thinks thy warm breath Casts a thick mist betwixt thy worth, which death Would quickly dissipate. If thou wouldst have Thy Bayes to flourish, plant them on thy grave. Gold now is drosse, and Oracles are stuffe

With us, for why? Thou art not low enough. We still look under thee. Stoop, and submit Thy glory to the meanest of our wit. The Rhodsan Colossus, ere it fell, Could not be scan'd and measured, half so well. Lie levell to our view, so shall we see, Our third and richest University. Art's length, Art's heighth, Art's depth, can ne're be found, Till thou art prostrate, stretch'd upon the ground. Learning no farther then thy life extends, With thee began all Arts, with thee it ends.