account of Fuller: "Many were the wit-contests betwixt him [Shakespeare] and Ben Jonson, which two I beheld like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his performances. Shakespeare (like the latter) lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." These "wit-contests" were mostly enacted at the Mermaid Tavern, where Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden, Donne, and other shining lights in the literary heavens of that day were wont to get together. The mention of Jonson's name at once calls up in the mind that of Shakespeare, since it is to Jonson that we owe much of the little that we know, or have from scanty relics been able to infer, of the personality of the Master Dramatist.

Ben Jonson was loud and self-assertive, hot-blooded, and often irritable; but that he was, as some have declared, arrogant, envious, and unlovable, can hardly be credited when we reflect that he was the intimate companion of the contemporary poets, and when we read and read again such glowing and unstinted tributes as are found in his lines on Drayton and on Shakespeare, which are given in pages following. What finer apostrophe can literature show than that of these lines to the memory of the poet he has just called "Master: ".

Triumph, my Britain! Thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.

He was not of an age, but for all time!"

ON SHAKESPEARE

[To the Memory of my Beloved Master, William Shakespeare, and What he hath Left us.]

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
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,
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 by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And 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,
I mean with great but disproportioned muses:
For, if I thought my judgment were of years,1
I should commit 2 thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And, though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honor thee I will not seek
For names, but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,

To live again, to hear thy buskin tread

8

And shake a stage or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

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
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
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 casts1 to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the muse's 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.

And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue; even so the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-tornéd 2 and true-filéd lines;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James !

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 3
Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,

Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

1 casts about, attempts 2 well-turned

8 i. e. in the heavens

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE

THIS figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With Nature, to outdo the life :

O could he but have drawn his wit

As well in brass as he has hit

His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass:
But since he can not, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.

HYMN TO DIANA

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair

State in wonted manner keep :

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear when day did close:

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart

And thy crystal-shining quiver ;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever :
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

TWO EPITAPHS

I. ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE

UNDERNEATH this sable hearse 1
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

II. ON MICHAEL DRAYTON

Do, pious marble, let thy readers know
What they, and what their children owe
To Drayton's name; whose sacred dust
We recommend unto thy trust.

Protect his memory, and preserve his story;
Remain a lasting monument of his glory.
And when thy ruins shall disclaim
To be the treasurer of his name;

His name, that can not die, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee.

1

THE NOBLE NATURE

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that nightIt was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

a black

canopy, beneath which the coffin was placed