SONG.

Take, oh, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears.
But first set may poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

BEN JONSON'S POETICAL PREFACE TO
THE FIRST EDITION (1623) OF SHAKE-
SPEARE'S WORKS.

To the memory of my beloved, the Author,
Mr. William Shakespeare

And what he hath left us.

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name
Am I thus ample to thy Booke and Fame;
While I confesse thy writings to be such
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true and all men's suffrage.

wayes

But these

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest Ignorance on these may light
Which when it sounds at best, but eccho's 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 seem'd to raise.

But thou art proofe against them, and, indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need,
I therefore will begin. Soule 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, to make thee a roome:
Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe,
And art alive still, while Thy Booke doth live
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
Triumph my Britaine! thou hast one to showe,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not for an age but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When like Apollo, he came forth to warme
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charme!
Nature herself was proud of her designes
And joy'd 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 Greeke, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terrence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lye

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 casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' Anvile: turn the same,
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame;
Or, for the lawrell, he may gaine a scorne,-
For a good Poet's made, as well as borne.

And such wert thou. Looke how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-torned and true-filed lines:

In each of which he seems to shake a Lance

As brandish't at the eyes of Ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appeare

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

Advanc'd, and made a Constellation there!

Shine forth, thou starre of Poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheere the drooping Stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned

like night

And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light. BEN: JONSON.

VERSES AMONG THE ADDITIONAL POEMS TO CHESTER'S LOVE'S MARTYR, OR ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT (1601), TO WHICH SHAKESPEARE'S NAME WAS APPENDED.

LET the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou, shrieking harbinger,

Foul pre-currer of the fiend,

Augur of the fever's end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st

With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence :
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
"Twixt the turtle and his queen ;
But in them it were a wonder.