To the memory of my beloued,
The AVTHOR
MR.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE :
AND
what he hath left vs.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these wayes Were not the paths I meant vnto thy praise : For seeliest Ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but eccho's right ; Or blinde Affection, which doth ne're aduance The truth, but gropes, and vrgeth all by chance ; Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise, And thinke to ruine, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous Baud, or Whore, Should praise a Matron. What could hurt her more ? But thou art proofe against them, and indeed Aboue 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 lye A little further, to make thee a roome : Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe, And art aliue still, while thy Booke doth liue, And we haue wits to read, and praise to giue. That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses ; I meane with great, but disproportion'd Muses: For, if I thought my iudgement were of yeeres, I should commit thee surely with thy peeres, And tell, how farre thou didstst [sic] our Lily out-shine, Or sporting Kid, or Marlowes might line. And though thou hadst small Latine, and lesse Greeke, From thence to honour thee, I would not seeke For names; but call forth thund'ring AEschilus, Euripides, and Sophocles to vs, Paccuuius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead, To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread, And shake a Stage : Or, when thy Sockes were on, Leaue thee alone, for the comparison | ||
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