William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (16 page)
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Authors: William Shakespeare
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Ben Jonson, in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
Upon the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenic Poet, Master William Shakespeare
Those hands which you so clapped go now and wring,
You Britons brave, for done are Shakespeare’s days.
His days are done that made the dainty plays
Which made the globe of heav’n and earth to ring.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring,
Turned all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays.
That corpse, that coffin now bestick those bays
Which crowned him poet first, then poets’ king.
If tragedies might any prologue have,
All those he made would scarce make one to this,
Where fame, now that he gone is to the grave—
Death’s public tiring-house—the
nuntius
is;
For though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.
You Britons brave, for done are Shakespeare’s days.
His days are done that made the dainty plays
Which made the globe of heav’n and earth to ring.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring,
Turned all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays.
That corpse, that coffin now bestick those bays
Which crowned him poet first, then poets’ king.
If tragedies might any prologue have,
All those he made would scarce make one to this,
Where fame, now that he gone is to the grave—
Death’s public tiring-house—the
nuntius
is;
For though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.
Hugh Holland, in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
TO THE MEMORY of the deceased author Master William Shakespeare
Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give
The world thy works, thy works by which outlive
Thy tomb thy name must; when that stone is rent,
And time dissolves thy Stratford monument,
Here we alive shall view thee still. This book,
When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look
Fresh to all ages. When posterity
Shall loathe what’s new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare’s ev‘ry line, each verse
Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy hearse.
Nor fire nor cank’ring age, as Naso said
Of his, thy wit-fraught book shall once invade;
Nor shall I e‘er believe or think thee dead—
Though missed—until our bankrupt stage be sped—
Impossible—with some new strain t’outdo
Passions of Juliet and her Romeo,
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take
Than when thy half-sword parleying Romans spake.
Till these, till any of thy volume’s rest
Shall with more fire, more feeling be expressed,
Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But crowned with laurel, live eternally.
The world thy works, thy works by which outlive
Thy tomb thy name must; when that stone is rent,
And time dissolves thy Stratford monument,
Here we alive shall view thee still. This book,
When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look
Fresh to all ages. When posterity
Shall loathe what’s new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare’s ev‘ry line, each verse
Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy hearse.
Nor fire nor cank’ring age, as Naso said
Of his, thy wit-fraught book shall once invade;
Nor shall I e‘er believe or think thee dead—
Though missed—until our bankrupt stage be sped—
Impossible—with some new strain t’outdo
Passions of Juliet and her Romeo,
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take
Than when thy half-sword parleying Romans spake.
Till these, till any of thy volume’s rest
Shall with more fire, more feeling be expressed,
Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But crowned with laurel, live eternally.
Leonard Digges, in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
To the memory of Master William Shakespeare
We wondered, Shakespeare, that thou went‘st so soon
From the world’s stage to the grave’s tiring-room.
We thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth
Tells thy spectators that thou went’st but forth
To enter with applause. An actor’s art
Can die, and live to act a second part.
That’s but an exit of mortality;
This, a re-entrance to a
plaudite.
From the world’s stage to the grave’s tiring-room.
We thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth
Tells thy spectators that thou went’st but forth
To enter with applause. An actor’s art
Can die, and live to act a second part.
That’s but an exit of mortality;
This, a re-entrance to a
plaudite.
James Mabbe, in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
The Names of the Principal Actors in all these Plays
William Shakespeare.
Richard Burbage.
John Heminges.
Augustine Phillips.
William Kempe.
Thomas Pope.
George Bryan.
Henry Condell.
William Sly.
Richard Cowley.
John Lowin.
Samuel Cross.
Alexander Cook.
Richard Burbage.
John Heminges.
Augustine Phillips.
William Kempe.
Thomas Pope.
George Bryan.
Henry Condell.
William Sly.
Richard Cowley.
John Lowin.
Samuel Cross.
Alexander Cook.
Samuel Gilburn.
Robert Armin.
William Ostler.
Nathan Field.
John Underwood.
Nicholas Tooley.
William Ecclestone.
Joseph Taylor.
Robert Benfield.
Robert Gough.
Richard Robinson.
John Shank.
John Rice.
Robert Armin.
William Ostler.
Nathan Field.
John Underwood.
Nicholas Tooley.
William Ecclestone.
Joseph Taylor.
Robert Benfield.
Robert Gough.
Richard Robinson.
John Shank.
John Rice.
In
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1623)
An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare
What need my Shakespeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such dull witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a lasting monument,
For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring 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 herself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
The labour of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such dull witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a lasting monument,
For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring 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 herself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
John Milton (1630), in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1632)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1632)
Upon the Effigies of my Worthy Friend, the Author Master William Shakespeare, and his Works
Spectator, this life’s shadow is. To see
The truer image and a livelier he,
Turn reader. But observe his comic vein,
Laugh; and proceed next to a tragic strain,
Then weep. So when thou find’st two contraries,
Two different passions from thy rapt soul rise,
Say—who alone effect such wonders could—
Rare Shakespeare to the life thou dost behold.
The truer image and a livelier he,
Turn reader. But observe his comic vein,
Laugh; and proceed next to a tragic strain,
Then weep. So when thou find’st two contraries,
Two different passions from thy rapt soul rise,
Say—who alone effect such wonders could—
Rare Shakespeare to the life thou dost behold.
Anonymous, in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1632)
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1632)
On Worthy Master Shakespeare and his Poems
A mind reflecting ages past, whose clear
And equal surface can make things appear
Distant a thousand years, and represent
Them in their lively colours’ just extent;
To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Roll back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confused lie
Great heaps of ruinous mortality;
In that deep dusky dungeon. to discern
A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn
The physiognomy of shades, and give
Them sudden birth, wond’ring how oft they live;
What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and picture without brain
Senseless and soulless shows; to give a stage,
Ample and true with life, voice, action, age,
As Plato’s year and new scene of the world
Them unto us or us to them had hurled;
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their hearse,
Make kings his subjects; by exchanging verse
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
And equal surface can make things appear
Distant a thousand years, and represent
Them in their lively colours’ just extent;
To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Roll back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where confused lie
Great heaps of ruinous mortality;
In that deep dusky dungeon. to discern
A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn
The physiognomy of shades, and give
Them sudden birth, wond’ring how oft they live;
What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and picture without brain
Senseless and soulless shows; to give a stage,
Ample and true with life, voice, action, age,
As Plato’s year and new scene of the world
Them unto us or us to them had hurled;
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their hearse,
Make kings his subjects; by exchanging verse
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage;
Yet so to temper passion that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both weep and smile: fearful at plots so sad,
Then laughing at our fear; abused, and glad
To be abused, affected with that truth
Which we perceive is false; pleased in that ruth
At which we start, and by elaborate play
Tortured and tickled; by a crablike way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort
Disgorging up his ravin for our sport,
While the plebeian imp from lofty throne
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love;
To strike up and stroke down both joy and ire;
To steer th’affections, and by heavenly fire
Mould us anew; stol’n from ourselves—
Yet so to temper passion that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both weep and smile: fearful at plots so sad,
Then laughing at our fear; abused, and glad
To be abused, affected with that truth
Which we perceive is false; pleased in that ruth
At which we start, and by elaborate play
Tortured and tickled; by a crablike way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort
Disgorging up his ravin for our sport,
While the plebeian imp from lofty throne
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love;
To strike up and stroke down both joy and ire;
To steer th’affections, and by heavenly fire
Mould us anew; stol’n from ourselves—
This, and much more which cannot be expressed
But by himself, his tongue and his own breast,
Was Shakespeare’s freehold, which his cunning brain
Improved by favour of the ninefold train.
The buskined muse, the comic queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio; nimble hand
And nimbler foot of the melodious pair,
The silver-voiced lady, the most fair
Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts,
And she whose praise the heavenly body chants.
But by himself, his tongue and his own breast,
Was Shakespeare’s freehold, which his cunning brain
Improved by favour of the ninefold train.
The buskined muse, the comic queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio; nimble hand
And nimbler foot of the melodious pair,
The silver-voiced lady, the most fair
Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts,
And she whose praise the heavenly body chants.
These jointly wooed him, envying one another,
Obeyed by all as spouse, but loved as brother,
And wrought a curious robe of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright,
Branched and embroidered like the painted spring,
Each leaf matched with a flower, and each string
Of golden wire, each line of silk; there run
Italian works whose thread the sisters spun,
And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice.
Here hangs a mossy rock, there plays a fair
But chiding fountain purled. Not the air
Nor clouds nor thunder but were living drawn
Not out of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials which the muses know,
And only know the countries where they grow.
Obeyed by all as spouse, but loved as brother,
And wrought a curious robe of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright,
Branched and embroidered like the painted spring,
Each leaf matched with a flower, and each string
Of golden wire, each line of silk; there run
Italian works whose thread the sisters spun,
And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice.
Here hangs a mossy rock, there plays a fair
But chiding fountain purled. Not the air
Nor clouds nor thunder but were living drawn
Not out of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials which the muses know,
And only know the countries where they grow.
Now when they could no longer him enjoy
In mortal garments pent: death may destroy,
They say, his body, but his verse shall live,
And more than nature takes our hands shall give.
In a less volume, but more strongly bound,
Shakespeare shall breathe and speak, with laurel crowned,
Which never fades; fed with Ambrosian meat
In a well-lined vesture rich and neat.
So with this robe they clothe him, bid him wear it,
For time shall never stain, nor envy tear it.
In mortal garments pent: death may destroy,
They say, his body, but his verse shall live,
And more than nature takes our hands shall give.
In a less volume, but more strongly bound,
Shakespeare shall breathe and speak, with laurel crowned,
Which never fades; fed with Ambrosian meat
In a well-lined vesture rich and neat.
So with this robe they clothe him, bid him wear it,
For time shall never stain, nor envy tear it.
‘The friendly admirer of his endowments’, I.M.S.,
in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1632)
in
Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies
(1632)
Upon Master WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, the
Deceased
Author, and his
POEMS
Deceased
Author, and his
POEMS
Poets are born, not made: when I would prove
This truth, the glad remembrance I must love
Of never-dying Shakespeare, who alone
Is argument enough to make that one.
First, that he was a poet none would doubt
That heard th‘applause of what he sees set out
Imprinted, where thou hast—I will not say,
Reader, his works, for to contrive a play
To him ‘twas none—the pattern of all wit,
Art without art unparalleled as yet.
Next, nature only helped him, for look thorough
This whole book, thou shalt find he doth not borrow
One phrase from Greeks, nor Latins imitate,
Nor once from vulgar languages translate,
Nor plagiary-like from others glean,
Nor begs he from each witty friend a scene
To piece his acts with. All that he doth write
Is pure his own—plot, language exquisite—
But O! what praise more powerful can we give
The dead than that by him the King’s men live,
His players, which should they but have shared the fate,
All else expired within the short term’s date,
How could the Globe have prospered, since through want
Of change the plays and poems had grown scant.
But, happy verse, thou shalt be sung and heard
When hungry quills shall be such honour barred.
Then vanish, upstart writers to each stage,
You needy poetasters of this age;
Where Shakespeare lived or spake, vermin, forbear;
Lest with your froth you spot them, come not near.
But if you needs must write, if poverty
So pinch that otherwise you starve and die,
On God’s name may the Bull or Cockpit have
Your lame blank verse, to keep you from the grave,
Or let new Fortune’s younger brethren see
What they can pick from your lean industry.
I do not wonder, when you offer at
Blackfriars, that you suffer; ‘tis the fate
Of richer veins, prime judgements that have fared
The worse with this deceased man compared.
So have I seen, when Caesar would appear,
And on the stage at half-sword parley were
Brutus and Cassius; O, how the audience
Were ravished, with what wonder they went thence,
When some new day they would not brook a line
Of tedious though well-laboured
Catiline.
Sejanus too was irksome, they prized more
Honest Iago, or the jealous Moor.
And though the Fox and subtle Alchemist,
Long intermitted, could not quite be missed,
Though these have shamed all the ancients, and might
raise
Their author’s merit with a crown of bays,
Yet these, sometimes, even at a friend’s desire
Acted, have scarce defrayed the seacoal fire
And doorkeepers; when let but Falstaff come,
Hal, Poins, the rest, you scarce shall have a room,
All is so pestered. Let but Beatrice
And Benedick be seen, lo, in a trice
The Cockpit galleries, boxes, all are full
To hear Malvolio, that cross-gartered gull.
Brief, there is nothing in his wit-fraught book
Whose sound we would not hear, on whose worth look;
Like old-coined gold, whose lines in every page
Shall pass true current to succeeding age.
But why do I dead Shakespeare’s praise recite?
Some second Shakespeare must of Shakespeare write;
For me ‘tis needless, since an host of men
Will pay to clap his praise, to free my pen.
This truth, the glad remembrance I must love
Of never-dying Shakespeare, who alone
Is argument enough to make that one.
First, that he was a poet none would doubt
That heard th‘applause of what he sees set out
Imprinted, where thou hast—I will not say,
Reader, his works, for to contrive a play
To him ‘twas none—the pattern of all wit,
Art without art unparalleled as yet.
Next, nature only helped him, for look thorough
This whole book, thou shalt find he doth not borrow
One phrase from Greeks, nor Latins imitate,
Nor once from vulgar languages translate,
Nor plagiary-like from others glean,
Nor begs he from each witty friend a scene
To piece his acts with. All that he doth write
Is pure his own—plot, language exquisite—
But O! what praise more powerful can we give
The dead than that by him the King’s men live,
His players, which should they but have shared the fate,
All else expired within the short term’s date,
How could the Globe have prospered, since through want
Of change the plays and poems had grown scant.
But, happy verse, thou shalt be sung and heard
When hungry quills shall be such honour barred.
Then vanish, upstart writers to each stage,
You needy poetasters of this age;
Where Shakespeare lived or spake, vermin, forbear;
Lest with your froth you spot them, come not near.
But if you needs must write, if poverty
So pinch that otherwise you starve and die,
On God’s name may the Bull or Cockpit have
Your lame blank verse, to keep you from the grave,
Or let new Fortune’s younger brethren see
What they can pick from your lean industry.
I do not wonder, when you offer at
Blackfriars, that you suffer; ‘tis the fate
Of richer veins, prime judgements that have fared
The worse with this deceased man compared.
So have I seen, when Caesar would appear,
And on the stage at half-sword parley were
Brutus and Cassius; O, how the audience
Were ravished, with what wonder they went thence,
When some new day they would not brook a line
Of tedious though well-laboured
Catiline.
Sejanus too was irksome, they prized more
Honest Iago, or the jealous Moor.
And though the Fox and subtle Alchemist,
Long intermitted, could not quite be missed,
Though these have shamed all the ancients, and might
raise
Their author’s merit with a crown of bays,
Yet these, sometimes, even at a friend’s desire
Acted, have scarce defrayed the seacoal fire
And doorkeepers; when let but Falstaff come,
Hal, Poins, the rest, you scarce shall have a room,
All is so pestered. Let but Beatrice
And Benedick be seen, lo, in a trice
The Cockpit galleries, boxes, all are full
To hear Malvolio, that cross-gartered gull.
Brief, there is nothing in his wit-fraught book
Whose sound we would not hear, on whose worth look;
Like old-coined gold, whose lines in every page
Shall pass true current to succeeding age.
But why do I dead Shakespeare’s praise recite?
Some second Shakespeare must of Shakespeare write;
For me ‘tis needless, since an host of men
Will pay to clap his praise, to free my pen.
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