And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence, to honour thee, I will not seek For names; but call forth thundering Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread And shake a stage; or when thy sock was 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 herself was proud of his designs, And joyed 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 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' anvil, 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-turnèd and true-filèd lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance As brandished 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! BEN JONSON. ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With Nature, to outdo the life. Oh, could he but have drawn his wit As well in brass, as he has hit His face, the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass. But, since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture, but his book. BEN JONSON. SHAKESPEARE'S LIVELONG MONUMENT