EPISTLES.
41
May Spring with purple flow'rs perfume thy urn,
And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn:
Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,
Imputed to the times, and not to thee.
Some scions shot from this immortal root, 45
Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit.
Johnson the tribute of my verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespeare's name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear: 50
The first a fruitful vine, in blooming pride,
Had been by superfluity destroy'd,
But that his friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant boughs with artful care;
On various-sounding harps the Muses play'd, 55
And sung, and quaff'd their nectar in the shade.
Few Moderns in the lists with these may stand,
For in those days were giants in the land;
Suffice it now by lineal right to claim,
And bow with filial awe to Shakespeare's fame:
The second honours are a glorious name. 61
Achilles dead, they found no equal lord
To wear his armour and to wield his sword.
An age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,
Discolour'd with a pious monarch's blood, 65
Whose fall when first the Tragic Virgin saw,
She filed, and left her province to the law.
And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn:
Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,
Imputed to the times, and not to thee.
Some scions shot from this immortal root, 45
Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit.
Johnson the tribute of my verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespeare's name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear: 50
The first a fruitful vine, in blooming pride,
Had been by superfluity destroy'd,
But that his friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant boughs with artful care;
On various-sounding harps the Muses play'd, 55
And sung, and quaff'd their nectar in the shade.
Few Moderns in the lists with these may stand,
For in those days were giants in the land;
Suffice it now by lineal right to claim,
And bow with filial awe to Shakespeare's fame:
The second honours are a glorious name. 61
Achilles dead, they found no equal lord
To wear his armour and to wield his sword.
An age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,
Discolour'd with a pious monarch's blood, 65
Whose fall when first the Tragic Virgin saw,
She filed, and left her province to the law.
