Why should the scene be mute, 'Cause thou canst touch thy lute, And string thy Horace? let each Muse of nine Claim thee, and say, Thou'rt mine. "Twere fond to let all other flames expire, To sit by Pindar's fire:

For by so strange neglect,

I should myself suspect,

The palsy were as well thy brain's disease, If they could shake thy Muse which way they please.

And though thou well canst sing
The glories of thy King;

And on the wings of verse his chariot bear,
To heaven, and fix it there;

Yet let thy Muse as well some raptures raise,
To please him, as to praise.

I would not have thee choose

Only a treble Muse;

But have this envious, ignorant age to know, Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low

TO BEN JONSON,

Upon occasion of his Ode of defiance annexed to his Play of the New Inn.

(BY T. CAREW.)

'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastizing hand Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand

To their swoln pride, and empty scribbling due;
It can nor judge, nor write: and yet 'tis true,
Thy comic Muse from the exalted line

Touch'd by the Alchemist, doth since decline
From that her zenith, and foretels a red

And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;
Yet such, as shall outshine the glimmering light,
With which all stars shall gild the following
night.

Nor think it much (since all thy eaglets may
Endure the sunny trial) if we say

This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine,
Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine:
Who hath his flock of cackling geese compared
With thy tuned quire of swans? or eise who da: ed
To call thy births deform'd? but if thou bind,
By city custom, or by gavel kind,

In equal shares thy love on all thy race,
We may distinguish of their sex, and place;
Though one hand form them, and though one
brain strike

Souls into all, they are not all alike.

Why should the follies then of this dull age
Draw from thy pen such an in modest rage,
As seems to blast thy clse-immortal bays,
When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of

praise?

Such thirst will argue drought. No, let be hurl'd
Upon thy works, by the detracting world,
What malice can suggest: let the rout say,
"The running sands, that, ere thou make a play,
Count the slow minutes, might a Godwin frame,
To swallow, when thou hast done, thy shipwreck'd

99

name."

Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid, Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, "that hath betray'd

To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt Into thy ink, whilst thou grow'st pale with guilt."*

Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste,
That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste
Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome
A knotty writer, bring the booty home:
Nor think it theft if the rich spoils, so torn
From conquer'd authors, be as trophies worn,
Let others glut on the extorted praise
Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after days:
Thy labour'd works shall live, when Time devours
The abortive offspring of their hasty hours.
Thou art not of their rank; the quarrel lies
Within thine own verge: then let this suffice,
The wiser world doth greater thee confess
Than all men else, than thyself only less.

* These are the old accusations against Jonson. His enemies had apparently more malice than invention, since they merely repeat what Decker and his party had urged against him thirty years before. This threadbare ribaldry was thought too valuable to be kept from the readers of Shakspeare, and therefore they are treated with it by Messrs. Steevens and Malone in a hundred different places.

ODE TO BEN JONSON,

upon his Ode to Himself.

(BY J. CLEVELAND.)

PROCEED in thy brave rage,
Which hath rais'd up our stage
Unto that height, as Rome in all her state,
Or Greece might emulate;
Whose greatest senators did silent sit,
Hear and applaud the wit,

Which those more temperate times,
Used when it tax'd their crimes:
Socrates stood, and heard with true delight,
All that the sharp Athenian Muse could write

Against his supposed fault;
And did digest the salt

That from that full vein did so freely flow:
And though that we do know

The Graces jointly strove to make that breast
A temple for their rest,*

We must not make thee less

Than Aristophanes :

He got the start of thee in time and place, But thou hast gain'd the goal in art and grace.

But if thou make thy feasts

For the high-relish'd guests,

This alludes to the well known distich of Plato, which is

thus rendered by Scaliger:

"Ut templum Charites quod non labatur haberent,

Invenére tuum pectus, Aristophanes."

And that a cloud of shadows shall break in,
It were almost a sin

To think that thou shouldst equally delight
Each several appetite;

Though Art and Nature strive
Thy banquets to contrive:

Thou art our whole Menander,* and dost look †
Like the old Greek; think, then, but on his Cook.‡

If thou thy full cups bring

Out of the Muses' spring,

And there are some foul mouths had rather drink Out of the common sink;

There let them seek to quench th' hydropic thirst, Till the swoln humour burst.

Let him who daily steals

From thy most precious meals,

Since thy strange plenty finds no loss by it,
Feed himself with the fragments of thy wit.

And let those silken men

That know not how, or when

To spend their money, or their time, maintain With their consumed no-brain,

*Casar called Terence Menander halfed, because he wanted so much of his grace and sharpness. Ben Jonson may well be cal'd our Menunder, whole, or more: exceeding him as much in sharpness and grace, as Terence wanted of him." I. C.

+"Ben Jonson is said to be very like the picture we have of Menander, taken from an ancient medal." i. c.

"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,
With various sorts of fresh-fish nourished,
In salt meat take little or no delight,

But taste them with fastidious appetite." I. C.