The effigies of love being a translation from the Latine of Mr. Robert Waring of Christ-Church in Oxford, master of arts, and proctor of that university. To which is prefixt a tombstone-encomium, by the same author, sacred to the memory of the prince of poets, Ben. Johnson; also made English by the same hand.

TO The PRINCE of POETS, BEN. JOHNSON, A TOMBSTONE-ENCOMIUM.

Greatest of Poets, Whether suffering Death or Extasie, Thou ly'st a venerable, more than mortal Pile. Thus, after the receiv'd honour of sacred Fury,

When th' aged Prophetess Had wasted the now-exhausted Inspiration, And the divine Soul no more to return Had taken its last flight, Thus lay the Sibyl's Carkas, Even yet to be consulted by her trembling Adorers. To none the God-like Soul so largely indulg'd it self, To none more unwilling it bid farewel, Transmitting equal Flames While an Exile, and while an Inhabitant. And now the Evening of thy years growing on, It did not leave thy breast,

As it were the Horizon of Poetry, Without its gloomie redness. 'Tis the fate of some Poets to betray, not know their Parts; A great Mystery to others, a greater to themselves; Like some Prophetick wilde Beasts, They boast an included Numen, which they know not; Wise by unintelligible instinct; In whom, while boldness creates wit, 'tis profitable to be ignorant. To thee it first happen'd to enjoy thy own Fury, And govern thy celestial gifts, While with an equal strife, thy judgment & thy inspiration went together, Twice divinely possess'd. Thou hast added Muses to other Muses, Arts and Sciences,

A Poet, full of thy self: Who separating Fury from Rage, Hast taught that the Aonian Springs may be soberly quaff't. Who hast chastiz'd the lawless extravagance of Rapture, By thrifty counsel. That Britain might at length possess, The World admire An Ingenuity that needs no pardon; And finde nothing to be farther added to thy Writings, But Fame. That the Prologues therefore, Like the Portico's of great men, should advance the Titles

Of the Master, The Author himself is celebrated as the perpetual Argument. This is not to be called Arrogance, but Judgment, Or Prophesie. For it is the property of Vertue and a Poet, To please himself. Therefore not to increase our Envie, but thy Praise, The Fates commanded thee to appear Great, Who alone hast shew'd thy self to Us an entire Poet. While others onely crop the Lawrel-boughs, Thou claim'st the whole Grove. Nor dost thou flatteringly praise, nor enviously bite; Abominating both,

Either to mix Honey with thy Sacrifice, or Vinegar With thy Physick. Nor hast thou burst thy Oaten-pipe with too much breath, Nor effeminated thy Trumpet with too little. Observing the Laws on both parts, as being thy self the Law, Thou hast obtain'd an Empire by the devotion of Obedience. Servant of Things, but not of Times. Thus being the Darling of all the Muses, Thou sett'st them all at a perpetual strife. Let it be Homer's Glory To have Cities at variance for him, for thee The Muses dispute. Who whether in thy Tragick Buskins, among the Poets,

Thundring Jupiter, Or whether thy round feet fill the Comick Sock; Whether thou dost dictate Epigrams That may be acted, Or Wit which the hands can shew. Thou leav'st those foot-steps Posterity must adore, And seem'st to Us to pitch the Theatre. Thy Scenes exhibit not Spectacles of Sand; Thy Scenes produc'd not Poems, but Poesie it self, And gave both Mindes and Laws to the People, By which they might condemn thee, if thou cou'dst have err'd. Thus thou affordest both sights and eyes to the Beholders; And mak'st those Scenes which chuse rather to be read

Than be beheld, Scorning to owe thy wit to the Actor. Others not beholding to Apollo, but to Mercury, Whose Inspirations proceed from Wine and Love, Who obtrude Vices upon the Stage, whom Diseases Make Poets, Whose Muses more fit to ride after the old custom in Carts, Never bring forth, but suffer abortion Of a few dying Verses, Which the very Press it self stifles. Authors expos'd to darkness by a new fraud of Lucina, While their Poems, like Diurnals, Serve onely for their Year and Country.

Thus the Modern Wit of Plautus No longer liv'd than Plautus liv'd; And the Domestick Iests of Aristophanes found No applause but upon his own Theatre. Thou in the mean while Breathest the Genius of Ages yet to come, The World's and thy Theatre is the same; While in one word, thou pourest forth a lasting Poem, A Verse immense, and increasing with the Reader. We congratulate thy happy Delays: But why call we that Delay, Which was made onely for

Our sakes? That ought to be eternally written, which Would be so read. Thou alone art able To govern the world with thy Pen, far greater than Scepters. The Sword subdu'd the Britains to Rome; Thy Quill, Rome to the Britains: Which thus rejoycing to be vanquish'd, We now behold more sublime in the English Buskin, Than in the height of her own Hills. But what is greater, thou subdu'st the Age to Us; And, Vicar of the Oracle,

Like a faithful Priest, perform'st what God commanded, Teaching men to know themselves. Our Language Nurs'd wit, increas'd by thee: Thou didst form the Country-speech and thy own words together. No more we boast our own, but Johnson's Eloquence; To the end thou mayst be always prais'd in thy own Language; Who hast also taught Rome it self more eloquent words, Vaunting in the servitude of a forrein Idiome. Greece also, The Mistriss of the world, thou hast adorn'd;

Now glorying in another than the Attick Dialect. Rich in thy self alone, thou wer't able to contemn The Ingenuities of Others, And without them wer't a Compendium of Wit. But as that Painter Who strove to give the world an Exemplar equal to the Idea, Artfully collected Those Beauties which Nature had here and there dispers'd; And forcing the wandring Rivolets of Form into one Ocean, Commanded thence another unblemish'd Venus: So to the framing a structure of the same nature,

Thy Poesie was like that Painting. Other Authors afforded Materials for thy Wit, Thou art added to them as Art and Polishing. And if others might be call'd Poets, thou Poesie itself. Not another Pen, but the Author of Authors. Long sollicitous Writers teaching at length by thy Self, What Genius a Book that would live ought to have. How many soever went before, Did but serve as Guides in the Road: Thou alone the Pillar. That Vertue which profits others, endammag'd The Owner.

And thou that hadst more correctedly transcrib'd others, Art not to be transcrib'd thy self: A Match equal to them gone before, To Posterity unequal. Perpetual Dictator of the Stage.

Rob. Waring.