AN ELEGY Upon the Death of SR. WILLIAM DAVENANT.
If those Great Heroes of the Stage, whose Wit
Swells to a wonder here, shall think it fit,
When Poet Lawreat's dead, that he should ly
Twelve days, or more, without an Elegie:
I that am less, presume to undertake,
A short Memorial for their Credits sake.
DEath in the shape of a thin Poet's come,
To summon Davenant to Elyzium:
Sent for by strict Express, for to appear those
Upon the Stage of Tempe's theatre.
His Voice compleats the Chorus among
Who sing the Numbers they themselves compose.
Now Davenant is arriv'd, the Fields and Plains
Resound unto his Welcome, Lofty Strains.
For every Poet there it shall be free
To raise his Joy unto an Extasie.
Imagine him encircled in a Sphere
Of those Great Souls who once admir'd him here:
First, Johnson doth demand a share in him,
For both their Muses whip'd the Vice of time:
Then Shakespear next a Brothers part doth claim,
Because their quick Inventions were the same.
Beaumont and Fletcher their Petitions joyn,
This, for clear Style, that, for his deep Design:
Tom Randolph asks a Portion 'mongst the rest,
Because they both were apt to break a Jest.
Shirley and Massinger comes in for shares,
For that his Language was refin'd as theirs:
Laborious Heywood, witty Brome, and Rowley,
The learned Chapman, and ingenious Cowley,
Ask their proportions as they've gain'd applause,
By well observing the Drammatick Laws:
Last, Sir John Sucklin saith his Title lies,
Because they both (were Knights, and) writ concise.
Thus the Experienc'd Davenant did ingross
A Soul of Wit divided among those,
Whose pregnant Muses have, from age to age,
Fix'd swelling Glories on the English Stage.
A Mirrour of the World, that it might see
Virtues sweet looks, Vices deformity.
And all is in one moment gone, since now
The Lawrels snatch'd from mighty Davenant's brow,
For ever wither'd must neglected ly,
T' impale the head of Nights obscurity.
But soft—yon black Chymaera sure doth bear
The Muse of Davenant through the yielding air;
Through clouds of Melancholy she is brought,
Clad in a weed of discomposed thought:
A pendent brow hath hid her smiles, as if
It were a sable Vail, and not a Grief:
Her arms (without Bracelets of mirth) across:
And thus she doth bewail her Davenant's loss.
"Engins of Fancie, crack, and now let loose
"Spirits of Ignorance, that shall reduce
"The World to its first Chaos, that not one
"But shall drink Lethe 'stead of Helicon.
Down with Parnassus, and thou Great Apollo,
Patron of Arts, I need not wish thee follow
This wrack of Time; for when it shall be said
With one poor moments breath that Davenant's dead
Thou wilt resign that happy place, and leave
Practise of Arts, and onely learn to grieve.
See here Heroick Tragedie, hard fate!
None to assume her Crown or Robe of state.
Comedie wants a head, on which to place
Her worthy Wreath of almost fading Bayes.
Now thou (Great Soul) art gone, who shall maintain
The Learned Issue of thy pregnant Brain?
Thy Lovers (now so different is their state)
Are both Platonick and Unfortunate.
Thy Cruel Brothers smooth designs shall be
Laid open to Times greater Cruelty.
Now Ignorance is loose, it is a wonder
If Madagascar do avoid a Plunder:
Since Rhodes it self will be besieg'd again,
Nor can great Numbers such a foe restrain.
How canst thou hope that any should escape,
When on thy Witts it will commit a rape?
Since Davenant's dead, I can forget my birth,
And in that rocky substance of the earth,
I'll cut my passage deeper than the Seas,
And whisper something to th' Antipodes
Shall raise Imagination to conceit,
There are no Gods, but Poets Lawreat.
The EPITAPH.
Here lyes a Subject of Immortal praise,
Who did from Phoebus hand receive his Bayes:
Admir'd by all, envied alone by those
Who for his Glories made themselves his foes:
Such were his virtues that they could command
A General Applause from every hand:
His Exit then this on Record shall have,
A Clap did usher Davenant to his Grave.
FINIS. ⟨194.⟩