Inscription on the Monument erected to Shakespeare’s Memory in the Parish Church at Stratford-on-Avon. 1623. BEN JONSON, 1623 (1573-1637) “_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 book, and fame: While I confess thy writings to be such, As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. ’Tis true, and all men’s suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise: For seeliest Ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes 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 proof against them, and in deed Above th’ ill fortune of them, or the need. I, therefore, will begin. Soul 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 room: Thou art a monument, without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses; I mean with great, but disproportion’d Muses: For, if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how for thou didst our Lyly out-shine, Or sporting Kid, or Marlowe’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 thundering Æschilus, 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 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 herself was proud of his designs, 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 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