TO THE MEMORY OF

MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON.

Το press into the throng, where wits thus strive.
To make thy laurels fading tombs survive,
Argues thy worth, their love, my bold desire,
Somewhat to sing, though but to fill the quire:
But (truth to speak) what muse can silent be,
Or little say, that hath for subject, thee?
Whose poems such, that as the sphere of fire,
They warm insensibly, and force inspire,
Knowledge, and wit infuse, mute tongues unloose,
And ways not track'd to write, and speak dis-
close.

But when thou put'st thy tragic buskin on, Or comic sock of mirthful action,

Actors, as if inspired from thy hand,

Speak, beyond what they think, less, understand;
And thirsty hearers, wonder-stricken, say,
Thy words make that a truth, was meant a play.
Folly, and brain-sick humours of the time,
Distemper'd passion, and audacious crime,
Thy pen so on the stage doth personate,
That ere men scarce begin to know, they hate
The vice presented, and there lessons learn,
Virtue, from vicious habits to discern.
Oft have I seen thee in a sprightly strain,
To lash a vice, and yet no one complain;
Thou threw'st the ink of malice from thy pen,
Whose aim was evil manners, not ill men.
Let then frail parts repose, where solemn care
Of pious friends their Pyramids prepare ;

And take thou, BEN, from Verse a second breath, Which shall create Thee new, and conquer death. Sir THOMAS HAWKINS."

TO THE MEMORY OF

MY FRIEND, BEN JONSON.

I SEE that wreath which doth the wearer arm
'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm
To keep off death's pale dart; for, JONSON, then
Thou hadst been number'd still with living men:
Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many votaries that come
To offer up their garlands at thy tomb,

5 Sir Thomas Hawkins, Knt. was the grandson of Thomas Hawkins, Esq.-of a family resident at the manor of Nash in the parish of Boughton under the Blean in Kent from the time of Edward III.-who attained the age of 101 years and died on the 15th March 1588, and lies buried in the north chancel of the church of Boughton, under a tomb of marble which bears honourable testimony to his services to king Henry VIII, and speaks of him as a man of great strength and lofty stature.

The friend of Jonson was the eldest of seven sons of sir Thomas Hawkins of Nash, and married Elizabeth daughter of George Smith of Ashby Folvile in Leicestershire, by whom he had two sons, John and Thomas, both of whom he survived, and dying without issue in 1640, was succeeded in a considerable patrimony by Richard his brother and heir, the lineal descendant of whom, Thomas Hawkins, Esq. was living at Nash in 1790.

Sir Thomas translated Caussin's Holy Court, several times reprinted in folio; the Histories of Sejanus and Philippa, from the French of P. Mathieu; and certain Odes of Horace, the 4th edition of which is before me, dated 1638. In a poem before the latter he is celebrated by H. Holland, for his skill in music. GILCHRIST.

Whilst some more lofty pens in their bright verse,
(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy herse)
Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,
How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;
Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I
Pay meaner rites unto thy memory:

And since I nought can add but in desire, Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.

What ends soever other quills invite, I can protest, it was no itch to write, Nor any vain ambition to be read,

But merely love and justice to the dead,
Which rais'd my fameless muse; and caus'd her
bring

These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,
To whose most rich and fruitful head we owe
The purest streams of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth; thou taught'st the ruder age,
To speak by grammar; and reform'dst the stage;
Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thyself was one
Help'd lift it up to such proportion,

That, thus refined and robed, it shall not spare
With the full Greek or Latin to compare.
For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate
Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state?
Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine,
From Chapman's pen, and from thy Catiline.
All I would ask for thee, in recompense
Of thy successful toil and time's expense
Is only this poor boon; that those who can,
Perhaps, read French, or talk Italian;

Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,

(To shew their skill in foreign dialect) Prove not themselves so' unnaturally wise They therefore should their mother-tongue despise;

(As if her poets both for style and wit,

Not equall'd, or not pass'd their best that writ) Until by studying JONSON they have known The heighth, and strength, and plenty of their

own.

Thus in what low earth, or neglected room Soe'er thou sleep'st, thy Book shall be thy tomb. Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'd With thine own flowers, and feel thyself renew'd, Whilst thy immortal, never-withering bays Shall yearly flourish in thy reader's praise: And when more spreading titles are forgot, Or, spite of all their lead and sear-cloth, rot; Thou wrapt and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie,

A Relic fam'd by all posterity.

HENRY KING."

Henry King, eldest son of Dr. John King, bishop of London, was born at Wornal in Buckinghamshire in January 1592. He was educated first at Thame, afterwards at Westminster, and lastly at Christ Church Oxford, where he was entered in 1608. He was successively chaplain to James the first, archdeacon of Colchester, residentiary of St. Paul's, chaplain in ordinary to Charles the first, dean of Rochester, and lastly bishop of Chichester, in which place he died 1st October, 1669, and was buried in the Cathedral. The writings of bishop King are for the most part devotional, but in his "Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets," 8vo. 1657, there is a neatness, an elegance, and even a tenderness, which entitle them to more attention than they have lately obtained. GILCHRIST.

TO THE MEMORY OF

BENJAMIN JONSON.

MIGHT but this slender offering of mine,
Crowd 'midst the sacred burden of thy shrine,
The near acquaintance with thy greater name
Might style me wit, and privilege my fame,
But I've no such ambition, nor dare sue
For the least legacy of wit, as due.

I come not t' offend duty, and transgress
Affection, nor with bold presumption press,
'Midst those close mourners, whose nigh kin in

verse,

Hath made the near attendance of thy hearse.
I come in duty, not in pride, to shew
Not what I have in store, but what I owe;
Nor shall my folly wrong thy fame, for we
Prize, by the want of wit, the loss of thee.

As when the wearied sun hath stol'n to rest,
And darkness made the world's unwelcome guest,
We grovelling captives of the night, yet may
With fire and candle beget light, not day;
Now he whose name in poetry controls,
Goes to converse with more refined souls,
Like country gazers in amaze we sit,
Admirers of this great eclipse in wit.
Reason and wit we have to shew us men,
But no hereditary beam of BEN.

Our knock'd inventions may beget a spark,
Which faints at least resistance of the dark;
Thine like the fire's high element was pure,
And like the same made not to burn, but cure.
When thy enraged Muse did chide o' the stage,
'Twas to reform, not to abuse the age.
-But thou'rt requited ill, to have thy herse,
Stain'd by profaner parricides in verse,