Though he a man see vertuous,
And full of good condition,
Thereof maketh he no mention.

The distinction of a perfect sentence hath a more full stay, and doth rest the spirit, which is a pause or a period.

A pause is a distinction of a sentence, though perfect in itself, yet joined to another, being marked with two pricks (:).

A period is the distinction of a sentence, in all respects perfect, and is marked with one full prick over against the lower part of the last letter, thus (.).

If a sentence be with an interrogation, we use this note (?).

Sir John Cheek:

Who can persuade, where treason is above reason; and might ruleth right; and it is had for lawful, whatsoever is lustful; and commotioners are better than commissioners; and common woe is named commonwealth?

Chaucer, 2d book of Fame:

Loe, is it not a great mischance,

To let a fool have governance

Of things, that he cannot demain ?

Lidgate, lib. 1:

For, if wives be found variable,

Where shall husbands find other stable?

If it be pronounced with an admiration, ther thus (!).

Sir Thomas More :

O Lord God, the blindness of our mortal na

ture!

Chaucer, 1st book of Fame :

Alas! what harm doth apparence,
When it is false in existence !

nature, so come they nearest to the ancient stays These distinctions, as they best agree with of sentences among the Romans and the Grecians. An example of all four, to make the matter plain, let us take out of that excellent oration of Sir John Check against the rebels, whereof before we have made so often mention:

When common order of the law can take no

place in unruly and disobedient subjects; and all men will of wilfulness resist with rage, and think their own violence to be the best justice: then be wise magistrates compelled by necessity to seek an extreme remedy, where mean salves help not, and bring in the martial law where none other law serveth.

Farewell,

E. P.

AN ECLOGUE ON THE DEATH OF BEN JONSON,

BETWEEN MELIBUS AND HYLAS.

Mel. Hylas, the clear day boasts a glorious

sun,

Our troop is ready, and our time is come:
That fox who hath so long our lambs destroy'd,
And daily in his prosperous rapine joy'd,
Is earth'd not far from hence; old Egon's son,
Rough Corilas, and lusty Corydon,
In part the sport, in part revenge desire,
And both thy tarrier and thy aid require.
Haste, for by this, but that for thee we stay'd,
The prey-devourer had our prey been made:
Hyl. Oh! Melibœus, now I list not hunt,
Nor have that vigor as before I wont ;
My presence will afford them no relief,
That beast I strive to chase is only grief.

Mel. What mean thy folded arms, thy downcast eyes,

Tears which so fast descend, and sighs which rise?

What mean thy words which so distracted fall
As all thy joys had now one funeral?
Cause for such grief, can our retirements yield?
That follows courts, but stoops not to the field.
Hath thy stern step-dame to thy sire reveal'd
Some youthful act, which thou couldst wish

conceal'd?

Part of thy herd hath some close thief convey'd
From open pastures to a darker shade?
Part of thy flock hath some fierce torrent
drown'd?

Thy harvest fail'd, or Amarillis frown'd?

Hyl. Nor love nor anger, accident nor thief, Hath rais'd the waves of my unbounded grief: To cure this cause, I would provoke the ire Of my fierce step-dame or severer sire, [grace Give all my herds, fields, flocks, and all the

That ever shone in Amarillis' face.
Alas, that bard, that glorious bard is dead,
Who, when I whilom cities visited,
Hath made them seem but hours, which were
full days,

Whilst he vouchsafed me his harmonious lays:
And when he lived, I thought the country then
A torture, and no mansion, but a den.

Mel. JONSON you mean, unless I much do err, I know the person by the character.

Hyl. You guess aright, it is too truly so,
From no less spring could all these rivers flow.
Mel. Ah, Hylas! then thy grief I cannot call
A passion, when the ground is rational.

I now excuse thy tears and sighs, though those
To deluges, and these to tempests rose:
Her great instructor gone, I know the age
No less laments than doth the widow'd stage,
And only vice and folly now are glad,
Our gods are troubled, and our prince is sad.
He chiefly who bestows light, health, and art,
Feels this sharp grief pierce his immortal heart,
He his neglected lyre away hath thrown,
And wept a larger, nobler Helicon,
To find his herbs, which to his wish prevail,
For the less love should his own favorite fail :
So moan'd himself when Daphne he ador'd,
That arts relieving all, should fail their lord.
Hyl. But say, from whence in thee this knowl
edge springs,

Of what his favor was with gods and kings.
Mel. Dorus, who long had known books, men

and towns,

At last the honor of our woods and downs, Had often heard his songs, was often fir'd With their enchanting power, ere he retir'd, And ere himself to our still groves he brought, To meditate on what his muse had taught: Here all his joy was to revolve alone,

All that her music to his soul had shown,
Or in all meetings to divert the stream

Of our discourse; and make his friend his theme,

And praising works which that rare loom hath 'weav'd,

Impart that pleasure which he had receiv'd.
So in sweet notes (which did all tunes excell,
But what he praised) I oft have heard him tell
Of his rare pen, what was the use and price,
The bays of virtue and the scourge of vice:
How the rich ignorant he valued least,
Nor for the trappings would esteem the beast;
But did our youth to noble actions raise,
Hoping the meed of his immortal praise:
How bright and soon his Muse's morning shone,
Her noon how lasting, and her evening none.
How speech exceeds not dumbness, nor versc
prose,

More than his verse the low rough times of those,

(For such, his seen, they seem'd,) who highest rear'd,

Possest Parnassus ere his power appear'd.
Nor shall another pen his fame dissolve,
Till we this doubtful problem can resolve,
Which in his works we most transcendant see,
Wit, judgment, learning, art, or industry;
Which till is never, so all jointly flow,
And each doth to an equal torrent grow:
His learning such, no author old nor new,
Escap'd his reading that deserved his view,
And such his judgment, so exact his test,
Of what was best in books, as what books best,
That had he join'd those notes his labors took,
From each most prais'd and praise-deserving
book,

And could the world of that choice treasure boast,

It need not care though all the rest were lost:
And such his wit, he writ past what he quotes,
And his productions far exceed his notes.
So in his works where aught inserted grows,
The noblest of the plants engrafted shows,
That his adopted children equal not,
The generous issue his own brain begot:
So great his art, that much which he did write,
Gave the wise wonder, and the crowd delight,
Each sort as well as sex admir'd his wit,
The he's and she's, the boxes and the pit;
And who less lik'd within, did rather choose,
To tax their judgments than suspect his muse.
How no spectator his chaste stage could call
The cause of any crime of his, but all

With thoughts and wills purg'd and amended rise,

From th' ethic lectures of his comedies,
Where the spectators act, and the sham'd age
Blusheth to meet her follies on the stage;
Where each man finds some light he never
sought,

And leaves behind some vanity he brought;
Whose politics no less the minds direct,
Than these the manners, nor with less effect,
When his Majestic Tragedies relate
All the disorders of a tottering state,
All the distempers which on kingdoms fall,
When ease, and wealth, and vice are general,
And yet the minds against all fear assure,

And telling the disease, prescribe the cure: Where, as he tells what subtle ways, what friends,

(Seeking their wicked and their wish'd-for ends) | Ambitious and luxurious persons prove, Whom vast desires, or mighty wants do more, The general frame to sap and undermine, In proud Sejanus, and bold Catiline; So in his vigilant Prince and Consul's parts, He shows the wiser and the nobler arts, By which a state may be unhurt, upheld, And all those works destroyed, which hell would build.

Who (not like those who with small praise had writ,

Had they not call'd in judgment to their wit)
Us'd not a tutoring hand his to direct,
But was sole workman and sole architect.
And sure by what my friend did daily tell,
If he but acted his own part as well
As he writ those of others, he may boast,
The happy fields hold not a happier ghost.

Hyl. Strangers will think this strange, yet he
(dear youth)

Where most he past belief, fell short of truth.
Say on, what more he said, this gives relief,
And though it raise my cause, it bates my grief,
Since fates decreed him now no longer liv'd,
I joy to hear him by thy friend reviv'd.

Mel. More he would say, and better, (but I
spoil

His smoother words with my unpolish'd style) And having told what pitch his worth attain'd He then would tell us what reward it gain'd: How in an ignorant, and learn'd age he sway'd, (Of which the first he found, the second made) How he, when he could know it, reap'd his fame,

And long out-liv'd the envy of his name:
To him how daily flock'd, what reverence gave,
All that had wit, or would be thought to have,
Or hope to gain, and in so large a store,
That to his ashes they can pay no more,
Except those few who censuring, thought not so,
But aim'd at glory from so great a foe:
How the wise too, did with mere wits agree,
As Pembroke, Portland, and grave Aubigny;
Nor thought the rigid'st senator a shame,
To contribute to so deserv'd a fame:
How great Eliza, the retreat of those
Who, weak and injur'd, her protection chose,
Her subjects' joy, the strength of her allies,
The fear and wonder of her enemies,
With her judicious favors did infuse
Courage and strength into his younger muse.
How learned James, whose praise no end shall
find,

(But still enjoy a fame pure like his mind)
Who favor'd quiet, and the arts of peace,
(Which in his halcyon days found large
encrease)

Friend to the humblest if deserving swain,
Who was himself a part of Phoebus' train,
Declar'd great JONSON worthiest to receive
The garland which the Muses' hands did weave
And though his bounty did sustain his days,
Gave a more welcome pension in his praise.
How mighty Charles amidst that weight

care,

Who turn'st to gold that which before was lead;
Then with that pure elixir rais'd the dead!
Nine sisters who (for all the poets lies),
Had been deem'd mortal, did not JoNsoN rise,
And with celestial sparks (not stoln) revive
Those who could erst keep winged fame alive:
'Twas he that found (plac'd) in the seat of wit,
Dull grinning ignorance, and banish'd it;
He on the prostituted stage appears
To make men hear, not by their eyes, but ears;
Who painted virtues, that each one might know,
And point the man, that did such treasure owe:
So that who could in Jenson's lines be high,
Needed not honors, or a riband buy;
But vice he only shewed us in a glass,
Which by reflection of those rays that pass,
Retains the figure lively, set before,
And that withdrawn, reflects at us no more;
So, he observ'd the like decorum, when
He whipt the vices, and yet spar'd the men :
When heretofore, the Vice's only note,
And sign from virtue was his party-coat;
When devils were the last men on the stage,
And pray'd for plenty, and the present age.

Nor was our English language only bound
To thank him, for he Latin Horace found
(Who so inspired Rome, with his lyric song)
Translated in the macaronic tongue;
Cloth'd in such rags, as one might safely vow,
That his Maecenas would not own him now:
On him he took this pity, as to clothe
In words, and such expression, as for both,
There's none but judgeth the exchange will come
To twenty more, than when he sold at Rome.
Since then, he made our language pure and good,
And us to speak, but what we understood,
We owe this praise to him, that should we join
To pay him, he were paid but with the coin
Himself hath minted, which we know by this,
That no words pass for current now, but his.
And though he in a blinder age could change
Faults to perfections, yet 'twas far more strange
To see (however times and fashions frame)
His wit and language still remain the same
In all men's mouths; grave preachers did it use
As golden pills, by which they might infuse
Their heavenly physic; ministers of state
Their grave dispatches in his language wrate;
Ladies made curt'sies in them, courtiers, legs,
Physicians bills; - perhaps, some pedant begs
He may not use it, for he hears 'tis such,
As in few words a man may utter much.
Could I have spoken in his language too,
I had not said so much, as now I do,
To whose clear memory I this tribute send,
Who dead's my Wonder, living was my Friend.
JOHN BEAUMONT, BART.

TO THE MEMORY OF MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON.

To press into the throng, where wits thus strive To make thy laurels fading tombs survive, Argues thy worth, their love, my bold desire, Somewhat to sing, though but to fill the quire: But (truth to speak) what muse can silent be, Or little say, that hath for subject, thee?

And ways not track'd to write, and speak dis
But when thou put'st thy tragic buskin on,
Or comic sock of mirthful action,
Actors, as if inspired from thy hand,
Speak, beyond what they think, less, understand;
And thirsty hearers, wonder-stricken, say,
Thy words make that a truth, was meant a play.
Folly, and brain-sick humors of the time,
Distemper'd passion and audacious crime,
Thy pen so on the stage doth personate,
That ere men scarce begin to know, they hate
The vice presented, and there lessons learn,
Virtue, from vicious habits to discern.
Oft have I seen thee in a sprightly strain,
To lash a vice, and yet no one complain;
Thou threw'st the ink of malice from thy pen,
Whose aim was evil manners, not ill men.
Let then frail parts repose, where solemn care
Of pious friends their Pyramids prepare;
And take thou, BEN, from Verse a second breath,
Which shall create Thee new, and conquer
death.

SIR THOMAS HAWKINS

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND, BEN JONSON. I see that wreath which doth the wearer arm 'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no

charm

To keep off death's pale dart; for, JoNsoN, then Thou hadst been number'd still with living

men :

Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade, Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many votaries that come

To offer up their garlands at thy tomb, [verse,
Whilst some more lofty pens in their bright
(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy herse)
Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,
How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;
Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I
Pay meaner rites unto thy memory:
And since I nought can add but in desire,
Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine
own fire.

What ends soever other quills invite,
I can protest, it was no itch to write,
Nor any vain ambition to be read,
But merely love and justice to the dead,
Which rais'd my fameless muse: and caus'd her

bring

These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,
To whose most rich and fruitful head we owe
The purest streams of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth; thou taught'st the ruder age,
To speak by grammar; and reform'dst the stage;
Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thyself was one
Help'd lift it up to such proportion,
That, thus refined and robed, it shall not spare
With the full Greek or Latin to compare.
For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate
Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's stɛte?