ODE TO BEN JONSON, upon his Ode to Himself. (BY J. CLEVELAND.) ROCEED in thy brave rage, Whose greatest senators did silent sit, Against his supposed fault; That from that full vein did so freely flow: The Graces jointly strove to make that breast We must not make thee less Than Aristophanes : 6 He got the start of thee in time and place, But if thou make thy feasts And that a cloud of shadows shall break in, 6 This alludes to the well known distich of Plato, which is thus rendered by Scaliger : "Ut templum Charites quod non labatur haberent, To think that thou shouldst equally delight Though Art and Nature strive 8 Thou art our whole Menander,' and dost look If thou thy full cups bring Out of the Muses' spring, And there are some foul mouths had rather drink There let them seek to quench th' hydropic thirst, Let him who daily steals From thy most precious meals, Since thy strange plenty finds no loss by it, And let those silken men That know not how, or when To spend their money, or their time, maintain With their consumed no-brain, Their barbarous feeding on such gross base stuff As only serves to puff ↑ "Cæsar called Terence Menander halfed, because he wanted so much of his grace and sharpness. Ben Jonson may well be call'd our Menander, whole, or more: exceeding him as much in sharpness and grace, as Terence wanted of him." I. C. 8" Ben Jonson is said to be very like the picture we have of Menander, taken from an ancient medal." I. Č. 9 "Menander in a fragment of one of his Comedies, makes his Cook speak after this manner of the diversity of tastes, viz. : 'What is his usual fare? What countryman is he? These things 'tis meet the cook should scan : For such nice guests as in the isles are bred, In salt meat take little or no delight, But taste them with fastidious appetite.'' I. C. Up the weak empty mind, Like bubbles, full with wind, And strive t'engage the scene with their damn'd oaths, Whilst thou tak'st that high spirit, Great Prince of Poets, though thy head be gray, And from the chief [pin] in Apollo's quire, Whose sound shall pierce so far It shall strike out the star, Which fabulous Greece durst fix in heaven, whilst thine, With all due glory, here on earth shall shine. Sing, English Horace, sing Whilst his triumphant chariot runs his whole And with his golden rays, So gild thy glorious bays, That Fame shall bear on her unwearied wing, |