Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughtie Rome
   Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triúmph, my Britaine, thou hast one to showe,
   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 warme
   Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme !
Nature her selfe was proud of his designes,
   And ioy'd to weare the dressing of his lines !
Which were so richly spun, and wouen so fit,
   As, since, she will vouchsafe no other Wit.
The merry Greeke tart Aristophanes,
   Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;
But antiquated, and deserted lye
   As they were not of Natures family.
Yet must I not giue Nature all : Thy Art,
   My gentle Shakespeare, must enioy a part.
For though the Poets matter, Nature be,
   His Art doth giue the fashion. And, that he,
Who casts to write a liuing line, must sweat,
   (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Vpon the Muses anuile : turne the same,
   (And himselfe with it) that he thinkes 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 fathers face
   Liues in his issue, euen so, the race
Of Shakespeares minde, and manners brightly shines
   In his well torned, and true filed lines :
In each of which, he seemes to shake a Lance,
   As branish't at the eyes of Ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Auon ! what a sight it were
   To see thee in our waters yet appeare,
And make those flights vpon the bankes of Thames,
   That so did take Eliza, and our Iames !
But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere
   Aduanc'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 frõ hence, hath mourn'd like night,
   And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light.