Believe me, friend, the name of this and thee, Will live, your story: Books may want faith, or merit glory; This neither, without judgment's lethargy. When the arts doat, then some sick poet may Hope that his pen, In new-stain'd paper, can find men To roar," He is the Wit;" his noise doth sway: But such an age cannot be known; for all Ere that time be, Must prove such truth, mortality: So, friend, thy honour stands too fix'd to fall. GEORGE DONNE.* To his worthy Friend, Master JOHN FORD, upon his LET men, who are writ poets, lay a claim * GEORGE DONNE.] Here again credit is given to Ford for the praises of such a celebrated pen as Dr. Donne's; who, as the commentator is not afraid to assert, was the steady friend of the the poet, and peculiarly attached to him.' Between Jonson and Donne, indeed, there was a warm and lasting attachment; their studies lay much in the same way at one period of their lives. Ben, like himself, was a profound scholar, and deeply versed in his favourite pursuit, a knowledge of the early Fathers of the Church. But it is more than probable that Ford was not even known to him by name. It is one of the most venial of Mr. Weber's oscitancies to be ignorant that Dr. Donne had, at the time this was written, been two years in his grave. Nor art in verse; true, I have heard some tell RA. EURE, baronis primogenitus.* To my faithful, no less deserving Friend, the Author (of Perkin Warbeck), this indebted oblation. PERKIN is rediviv'd by thy strong hand, And crown'd a king of new; the vengeful wand game. GEORGE CRYMES, miles. "The son of William, Lord Eure." Of the Miles who follows, I can say nothing. I have, however, corrected his verses, which were shamefully misprinted in the former edition. To the Author, his Friend, upon his Chronicle History (of Perkin Warbeck.) THESE are not to express thy wit, But to pronounce thy judgment fit, JOHN BROGRAVE, Ar. To my Friend and Kinsman Master JOHN FORD, the Author (of Perkin Warbeck.) DRAMATIC poets, as the times go now, Can hardly write what others will allow; JOHN FORD, Graiensis. To Master JOHN FORD, of the Middle Temple, on his I FOLLOW fair example, not report, To show how I can write, At mine own charges, for the time's delight: But to acquit a debt, Due to right poets, not the counterfeit. These Fancies Chaste and Noble are no strains The guard of beauty, and the care of youth; An acadèmy for the young and fair. Such labours, friend, will live; for though some new Those laurels, which of old Enrich'd the actors: yet I can be bold, To say, their hopes are starv'd; For they but beg, what pens approved deserv'd. EDW. GREEnfield. Upon the Sun's Darling. Is he then found? Phoebus, make holiday, Mercury, be quick, with mirth furnish the heavens; JOHN TATHAM.* Upon FORD's two Tragedies, Love's Sacrifice and The Broken Heart. THOU cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seem two by art: What is Love's Sacrifice, but The Broken Heart? RICHARD CRASHAW.† * "John Tatham was a poet of the reign of Charles I. and author of four plays enumerated in the Biographia Dramatica. From 1657 to 1663, he furnished pageants for the Lord Mayor's day, in the quality of city poet." Had the poets lived to publish their own drama, it can scarcely be imagined that they would have suffered this deplorable balderdash to be prefixed to it. + Delights of the Muses, 1646. |