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And make those flights upon the bankes of Thames,

That so did take Eliza, and our Iames ! But stay, I see the 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.


TO THE MEMORIE of the deceased Authour Maister

W. SHA K ESPEARE. E Hakespeare, at length thy pious fellowes giue

The world thy Workes: thy Workes, by which, out-live Thy Tombe, thy name must when that stone is rent, And. Time dissolues thy Stratford Moniment, Here we aliue Mall view thee still. This Booke, When Brase and Marble fade, Mall make thee looke Fresh to all ages: when Posteritie Shall loath what's new, thinke all is prodegie That is not Shakespeares; eu'ry Line, each Verse Here Mall reuiue, redeeme thee from thy Herse. Nor Fire, nor cankring Age, as Naso said, Of his, thy wit-fraught Booke Mall once inuade. Nor mall I e're beleeue, or thinke thee dead (Though mist) untill our bankrout Stage be Sped (Impossible) with some new straine to out-do Passions of Iuliet, and her Romeo, Or till J heare a Scene more nobly take, Then when thy half-Sword parlying Romans spakr. Till these, till any of thy Volumes rest Shall with more fire, more feeling be expresi, Be sure, our Shake-speare, thou canst neuer dye, But crown'd with Lawrell, liue eternally.

L. Digges. To the memorie of M.W.Shake-speare. VVEL

EE wondred (Shake-speare) that thou wenst so soons

From the Worlds-Stage, to the Graues-Tyring-roome. Wee thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth, Tels thy Spectators, that thou went

nts but forth To enter with applause. An Aétors Art, Can dye, and liue, to ačte a second part. That's but an Exit of Mortalitie ; This, a Re-entrance to a Plaudite. b

I. M.



Vpen the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenicke Poet, Master WILLIAM


Hofe hands, which you so clapt, go now, and wring

You Britaines brave ; for done are Shakespeares dayes :
His dayes are done, that made the dainty Playes,

Which made the Globe of heau'n and earth to ring.
Dry'de is that veine, dry'd is the Thespian Spring,
Turn'd all to teares, and Phæbus clouds his rayes;
That corp's, that coffin now besticke those bayes,
Which crown'd him Poet first, then Poets King.
If Tragedies might any Prologue haue,
All those he made, would scarse make one to this :
Where Fame, now that he gone is to the graue
(Deaths publique tyring-house) the Nuncius is.

For though his line of life went soone about,
The life yet of his lines shall neuer out.


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