We, like the Actors did repeat, the Pit

The first time faw, the next conceiv'd thy Wit:
Which was caft in thofe Forms, fuch Rules, fuch Arts,
That but to fome not half thy Acts were Parts:
Since of fome filken Judgments we may fay,
They fill'd a Box two Hours, but faw no Play.
So that th' unlearned loft their Mony, and
Scholars fav'd only, that could understand.
Thy Scene was free from Monsters, no hard Plot
Call'd down a God t'unty th'unlikely Knot.
The Stage was ftill a Stage, two Entrances
Were not two Parts o'th' World, disjoin'd by Seas.
Thine were Land-Tragedies, no Prince was found
Tofwim a whole Scene out, then o'th' Stage drown'd;
Pitch'd Fields, as red Bull Wars, ftill felt thy Doom,
Thou laid❜ft no Sieges to the Musick-Room;
Nor would't allow to thy beft Comedies
Humours that should above the People rife:
Yet was thy Language and thy Stile fo high,
Thy Sock to th' ancle, Buskin reach'd to th' thigh;
And both fo chaft, fo 'bove Dramatick clean,
That we both fafely faw, and liv'd thy Scene.
No foul loofe Line did proftitute thy Wit,
Thou wrot'ft thy Comedies, didft not commit.
We did the Vice arraign'd not tempting hear,
And were made Judges, not bad Parts by th' Ear.
For thou ev❜n Sin didft in fuch words array,
That fome who came bad Parts, went out good Play.
Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the Age
Still acted, which grew Innocent from th' Stage.
'Tis true thou hadft fome Sharpnefs, but thy Salt
Serv'd but with Pleafure to reform the Fault.
Men were laugh'd into Virtue, and none more
Hated Face a&ted than were fuch before.
So did thy Sting not Blood, but Humors draw,
So much doth Satyr more correct than Law;
Which was not Nature in thee, as fome call
Thy Teeth, who fay thy Wit lay in thy Gall

That thou didst quarrel firft, and then, in spight,
Didft 'gainst a Person of such Vices write:
That 'twas Revenge, not Truth; that on the Stage
Carlo was not presented, but thy Rage:

And that when thou in company wert met,
Thy Meat took Notes, and thy Discourse was Net.
We know thy free Vein had this Innocence,
To fpare the Party, and to brand th' Offence.
And the juft Indignation thou wert in
Did not expofe Shift, but his Tricks and Ginn.
Thou might have us'd th' old Comick freedom,these
Might have feen themselves plaid, like Socrates.
Like Cleon, Mammon might the Knight have been,
If, as Greek Authors, thou hadft turn'd Greek spleen;
And hadft not chofen rather to tranflate

Their Learning into English, not their hate:
Indeed this laft, if thou hadst been bereft
Of thy Humanity, might be call'd Theft.
The other was not; whatfoe'er was ftrange
Or borrow'd in thee did grow thine by th' change.
Who without Latin helps hadft been as rare
As Beaumont, Fletcher, or as Shakespear were:
And like them, from thy native Stock couldst say,
Poets and Kings are not born every Day.

In Memory of the most Worthy BENJAMIN JOHNSON.

By Mr. W. CARTWRIGHT.

Ather of Poets, though thine own great Day

Should twine in luftre with it: Yet my Flame, Kindled from thine, flies upwards tow'rds thy Name. For in the Acclamation of the lefs

There's Piety, though from it no access.

And

And though my ruder Thoughts make me of those,
Who hide and cover what they fhould disclose:
Yet, where the Luftre's fuch, he makes it feen
Better to fome, that draws the Veil between.

And what can more be hop'd, fince that Divine
Free filling Spirit took its flight with thine?
Men may have Fury, but no Raptures now;
Like Witches, charm, yet not know whence, nor how.
And through Diftemper, grown not ftrong but fierce;
Inftead of writing, only rave in Verfe:

Which when by thy Laws judg'd, 'twill be confefs'd, 'Twas not to be infpir'd, but be poffefs'd.

Where shall we find a Mufe like thine, that can
So well present and fhew Man unto Man,
That each one finds his Twin, and thinks thy Art
Extends not to the Geftures, but the Heart?
Where one fo fhewing Life to Life, that we

Think thou taught'ft Custom, and not Custom thee?
Manners, that were Themes to thy Scenes, ftill flow
In the fame Stream, and are their Comments now:
Thefe Times thus living o'er thy Models, we
Think them not so much Wit, as Prophefie:
And tho' we know the Character, may swear
A Sibyll's Finger hath been bufie there.

[known

Things common thou fpeak'ft proper, which tho' For Publick, ftampt by thee grow thence thine own: Thy Thoughts fo order'd, fo exprefs'd, that we Conclude that thou didst not Difcourfe, but fee Language fo mafter'd, that thy numerous Feet, Laden with genuine Words, do always meet Each in his Art; nothing unfit doth fall, Shewing the Poet, like the Wiseman, all : Thine equal Skill thus wrefting nothing, made Thy Pen feem not fo much to write as Trade. That Life, that Venus of all things, which we Conceive or shew, proportion'd Decency, Is not found fcatter'd in thee here and there, But, like the Soul, is wholly every where. VOL. II.

I

No ftrange perplexed Maze doth pass for Plot,
Thou always doft untie, not cut the Knot.
Thy Lab'rinths Doors are open'd by one Thread,
That ties, and runs through all that's done or faid.
No Power comes down with learned Hat and Rod,
Wit only, and Contrivance is thy God.

'Tis eafie to gild Gold: There's small Skill spent
Where ev'n the firft rude Mafs is Ornament:
Thy Mufe took harder Metals, purg'd and boil'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beat and toyl'd,
Sifted the Drofs, fil'd roughness, then grave drefs,
Vexing rude Subjects into Comeliness.

Be it thy Glory then, that we may say,

Thou run'ft where th' Foot was hindred by the way.
Nor doft thou pour out, but difpence thy Vein,
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertain:
Not like our Wits, who into one piece do
Throw all that they can fay, and their Friends too,
Pumping themselves, for one Terms noise, so dry,
As if they made their Wills in Poetry.

And fuch spruce Compofitions prefs the Stage,
When Men transcribe themselves, and not the Age.
Both forts of Plays are thus like Pictures shown,
Thine of the common Life, theirs of their own.
Thy Models yet are not so fram'd, as we
May call them Libels, and not Imag'ry:
No name on any Bafis: 'tis thy Skill
To ftrike the Vice, but fpare the Perfon ftill:
As he, who when he faw the Serpent wreath'd
About his fleeping Son, and as he breath'd,
Drink in his Soul, did fo the fhoot contrivè,
To kill the Beaft, but keep the Child alive:
So doft thou aim thy Darts, which, even when
They kill the Foifons, do but wake the Men.
Thy Thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy Launcings better than another's Cure;
And justly too: for th' Age grows more unfound
From the Fool's Balfom, than the Wiseman's Wound.

No rotten Talk brokes for a Laugh; no Page Commenc'd Man by th' Inftructions of thy Stage; No bargaining Line there; no provoc'tive Verse ; Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;

No need to make good Count'nance ill, and use
The Plea of ftrict Life for a loofer Mufe:
No Woman rul'd thy Quill: we can descry
No Verfe born under any Cynthia's Eye:
Thy Star was Judgment only, and right Sense,
Thy felf being to thy felf an Influence.
Stout Beauty is thy Grace: Stern Pleasures do
Prefent Delights, but mingle Horrours too :
Thy Muse doth thus like Jove's fierce Girl appear,
With a fair Hand, but grafping of a Spear.

Where are they now that cry, thy Lamp did drink
More Oil than th' Author Wine, while he did think?
We do imbrace their Slander: thou haft writ
Not for Difpatch but Fame; no market Wit:
'Twas not thy Care, that it might pass and fell,
But that it might endure, and be done well:
Nor would't thou venture it unto the Ear,
Until the File would not make smooth, but wear:
Thy Verse came feafon'd hence, and would not give;
-Born not to feed the Author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer Judges rofe a Strife,
To make thee read as Claffick in thy Life.
Those that do hence applause, and fuffrage beg,
'Cause they can Poems form upon one Leg,
Write not to Time, but to the Poet's Day:
There's difference between Fame, and fudden Pay.
These Men fing Kingdoms falls, as if that Fate
Us'd the fame Force t'a Village, and a State:
These serve Thyeftes bloody Supper in,

As if it had only a Sallad been:

Their Catilines are but Fencers, whofe Fights rife
Not to the Fame of Battel, but of Prize.
But thou ftill put'ft true Paffions on; doft write
With the fame Courage that try'd Captains fight;