NEBUCHADNEZZAR.

That valor is the chiefest virtue, and

Most dignifies the haver: if it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world

Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen years,

When Tarquin made a head for
Rome, he fought
Beyond the mark of others: our
then dictator,

Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight

When with his Amazonian chin he drove

The bristled lips before him: he bestrid

An o'erpressed Roman, and in the consul's view

Slew three opposers: Tarquin's self he met,

And struck him on his knee: in that day's feats,

When he might act the woman in

the scene,

He proved best man of the field, and for his meed

Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

THIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse

What kind of creature I could most

desire

To honor, serve, and love, as poets use. I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;

I meant the Day-Star should not brighter rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.

I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,

Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;

I meant each softest virtue there should meet

Fit in that softer bosom to reside.
Only a learned and a manly soul
I purposed her, that should, with
even powers,

The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.

Such when I meant to feign, and

wished to see,

My Muse bade Bedford write, and that was she.

EPITAPH ON SHAKSPEARE.

WHAT needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones,

The labor of an age in pilèd stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a live long monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slowendeavoring art

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,

Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

EPITAPH.

MILTON.

UNDERNEATH this stone doth lye
As much beauty as could dye;
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth
The other, let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it dyed to tell,
Than that it lived at all. Farewell!
BEN JONSON.

TRANSLATION OF COWLEY'S EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS DRAKE.

THE stars above will make thee known,

If man were silent here; The sun himself cannot forget His fellow-traveller.

BEN JONSON.