{"id":1075,"date":"2019-04-05T17:40:09","date_gmt":"2019-04-05T17:40:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/epcc-britlit1\/?post_type=chapter&p=1075"},"modified":"2019-04-05T17:41:19","modified_gmt":"2019-04-05T17:41:19","slug":"to-the-memory-of-my-beloved-the-author-mr-william-shakespeare-and-what-he-hath-left-us","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/epcc-britlit1\/chapter\/to-the-memory-of-my-beloved-the-author-mr-william-shakespeare-and-what-he-hath-left-us\/","title":{"raw":"To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare and What He Hath Left Us","rendered":"To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare and What He Hath Left Us"},"content":{"raw":"
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\r\n\r\nTo draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,\r\nAm I thus ample to thy book and fame;\r\nWhile I confess thy writings to be such\r\nAs neither man nor Muse can praise too much.\r\n\u2019Tis true, and all men\u2019s suffrage. But these ways\r\nWere not the paths I meant unto thy praise;\r\nFor seeliest Ignorance on these may light,\r\nWhich, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;\r\nOr blind Affection, which doth ne\u2019er advance\r\nThe truth, but gropes and urgeth all by chance;\r\nOr crafty Malice might pretend this praise,\r\nAnd think to ruin where it seem\u2019d to raise.\r\nThese are as some infamous bawd or whore\r\nShould praise a matron. What could hurt her more?\r\nBut thou art proof against them, and, indeed,\r\nAbove the ill-fortune of them, or the need.\r\nI, therefore, will begin. Soul of the age!\r\nThe applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,\r\nMy Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by\r\nChaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie\r\nA little further, to make thee a room:\r\nThou art a monument without a tomb,\r\nAnd art alive still, while thy book doth live,\r\nAnd we have wits to read, and praise to give.\r\nThat I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;\r\nI mean, with great but disproportion\u2019d Muses.\r\nFor, if I thought my judgment were of years,\r\nI should commit thee, surely, with thy peers.\r\nAnd tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,\r\nOr sporting Kyd, or Marlowe\u2019s mighty line.\r\nAnd though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,\r\nFrom thence, to honour thee, I would not seek\r\nFor names; but call forth thund\u2019ring Aeschylus,\r\nEuripides, and Sophocles to us,\r\nPaccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead\r\nTo life again, to hear thy buskin tread\r\nAnd shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,\r\nLeave thee alone, for the comparison\r\nOf all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome\r\nSent forth; or since did from their ashes come.\r\nTriumph, my Britain! Thou hast one to show\r\nTo whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.\r\nHe was not of an age, but for all time!\r\nAnd all the Muses still were in their prime,\r\nWhen, like Apollo, he came forth to warm\r\nOur ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.\r\nNature herself was proud of his designs,\r\nAnd joy\u2019d to wear the dressing of his lines,\r\nWhich were so richly spun, and woven so fit\r\nAs, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.\r\nThe merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,\r\nNeat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;\r\nBut antiquated and deserted lie,\r\nAs they were not of Nature\u2019s family.\r\nYet must I not give Nature all! Thy art,\r\nMy gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.\r\nFor though the Poet\u2019s matter Nature be\r\nHis art doth give the fashion. And that he\r\nWho casts to write a living line, must sweat\r\n(Such as thine are), and strike the second heat\r\nUpon the Muses\u2019 anvil, turn the same\r\n(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame;\r\nOr for the laurel he may gain a scorn!\r\nFor a good Poet\u2019s made as well as born;\r\nAnd such wert thou! Look how the father\u2019s face\r\nLives in his issue; even so, the race\r\nOf Shakespeare\u2019s mind and manners brightly shines\r\nIn his well-turn\u00e8d and true-fil\u00e8d lines;\r\nIn each of which he seems to shake a lance\r\nAs brandish\u2019d at the eyes of Ignorance.\r\nSweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were\r\nTo see thee in our water yet appear,\r\nAnd make those flights upon the banks of Thames\r\nThat so did take Eliza, and our James!\r\nBut stay, I see thee in the hemisphere\r\nAdvanc\u2019d, and made a constellation there!\r\nShine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage\r\nOr influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage;\r\nWhich since thy flight from hence hath mourn\u2019d like night,\r\nAnd despairs day, but for thy volume\u2019s light.\r\n\r\n<\/div>\r\n<\/div>\r\n<\/div>\r\n<\/div>","rendered":"
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To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
\nAm I thus ample to thy book and fame;
\nWhile I confess thy writings to be such
\nAs neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
\n\u2019Tis true, and all men\u2019s suffrage. But these ways
\nWere not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
\nFor seeliest Ignorance on these may light,
\nWhich, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
\nOr blind Affection, which doth ne\u2019er advance
\nThe truth, but gropes and urgeth all by chance;
\nOr crafty Malice might pretend this praise,
\nAnd think to ruin where it seem\u2019d to raise.
\nThese are as some infamous bawd or whore
\nShould praise a matron. What could hurt her more?
\nBut thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
\nAbove the ill-fortune of them, or the need.
\nI, therefore, will begin. Soul of the age!
\nThe applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,
\nMy Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
\nChaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
\nA little further, to make thee a room:
\nThou art a monument without a tomb,
\nAnd art alive still, while thy book doth live,
\nAnd we have wits to read, and praise to give.
\nThat I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;
\nI mean, with great but disproportion\u2019d Muses.
\nFor, if I thought my judgment were of years,
\nI should commit thee, surely, with thy peers.
\nAnd tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
\nOr sporting Kyd, or Marlowe\u2019s mighty line.
\nAnd though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
\nFrom thence, to honour thee, I would not seek
\nFor names; but call forth thund\u2019ring Aeschylus,
\nEuripides, and Sophocles to us,
\nPaccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead
\nTo life again, to hear thy buskin tread
\nAnd shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
\nLeave thee alone, for the comparison
\nOf all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
\nSent forth; or since did from their ashes come.
\nTriumph, my Britain! Thou hast one to show
\nTo whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
\nHe was not of an age, but for all time!
\nAnd all the Muses still were in their prime,
\nWhen, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
\nOur ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.
\nNature herself was proud of his designs,
\nAnd joy\u2019d to wear the dressing of his lines,
\nWhich were so richly spun, and woven so fit
\nAs, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
\nThe merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
\nNeat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
\nBut antiquated and deserted lie,
\nAs they were not of Nature\u2019s family.
\nYet must I not give Nature all! Thy art,
\nMy gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
\nFor though the Poet\u2019s matter Nature be
\nHis art doth give the fashion. And that he
\nWho casts to write a living line, must sweat
\n(Such as thine are), and strike the second heat
\nUpon the Muses\u2019 anvil, turn the same
\n(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame;
\nOr for the laurel he may gain a scorn!
\nFor a good Poet\u2019s made as well as born;
\nAnd such wert thou! Look how the father\u2019s face
\nLives in his issue; even so, the race
\nOf Shakespeare\u2019s mind and manners brightly shines
\nIn his well-turn\u00e8d and true-fil\u00e8d lines;
\nIn each of which he seems to shake a lance
\nAs brandish\u2019d at the eyes of Ignorance.
\nSweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
\nTo see thee in our water yet appear,
\nAnd make those flights upon the banks of Thames
\nThat so did take Eliza, and our James!
\nBut stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
\nAdvanc\u2019d, and made a constellation there!
\nShine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage
\nOr influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage;
\nWhich since thy flight from hence hath mourn\u2019d like night,
\nAnd despairs day, but for thy volume\u2019s light.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\t\t\t

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Candela Citations<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t
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Public domain content<\/div>