For if I thought my Judgment were of Years,
I should commit thee, surely, with thy Peers:
And tell how far thou didst our Lilly out-shine,
Or sporting Kid, or Marlow's mighty Line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For Names; but call forth thund'ring Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy Buskin tread,
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 her self was proud of his designes,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his Lines:
Which were so richly spun, and wove 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 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 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-torned, and true-filed Lines:
In each of which he seems to shake a Lance,
As brandish'd 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
Advanc'd, and made a Constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets! and with Rage,
Or Influence, chide, or chear, the drooping Stage:
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night,
And despairs day, but for thy Volume's light. Ben. Jonson.