To my dead friend Ben Johnson

I see that wreath which doth the wearer arm

'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm

To keep off deaths pale dart. For, Johnson then

Thou hadst been number'd still with living men.

Times sithe had fear'd thy Lawrel to invade,

Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many votaries who come

To offer up their Garlands at thy Tombe;

Whil'st 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 adde, but in desire

Restore some sparks which leapt from thine own fire.

What ends soever others quills invite,

I can protest, it was no itch to write,

Nor any vain ambition to be read,

But meerly 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 ow

The purest streams of language which can flow.

For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder age

To speake by Grammar, and reform'dst the Stage:

Thy Comick Sock induc'd such purged sence,

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, thy self was one

Helpt lift it up to such proportion.

That thus refin'd and roab'd, it shall not spare

With the full Greek or Latine to compare.

For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate

Great Tully's Eloquence, or Homers State?

Both which in their unblemisht lustre shine,

From Chapmans pen, and from thy Catiline.

All I would ask for thee, in recompence

Of thy successful toyl and times expence,

Is onely this poor Boon: that those who can

Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,

Or do the lofty Spaniard affect; 

To shew their skill in Forrein 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)

Untill by studying Johnson they have known

The height and strength and plenty of their own.

Thus in what low earth or neglected room

Soere thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb.

Thou wilt go down a happy Coarse, bestrew'd

With thine own Flowres; and feel thy self renew'd,

Whil'st thy immortal never-with'ring Bayes

Shall yearly flourish in thy Readers praise.

And when more spreading Titles are forgot,

Or spight of all their Lead and Sear-cloth rot,

Thou wrapt and Shrin'd in thine own sheets, wilt ly

A Relick fam'd by all Posterity.