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 Of all that inolent Greece, or haughtie Rome
 * ent forth, or ince did from their ahes come.

Triumph, my Britaine, thou hat one to howe,
 * To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe.

He was not of an age, but for all time!
 * And all the Mues till were in their prime,

when like Apollo he came forth to warme
 * Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme!

Nature her elfe was proud of his deignes,
 * And ioy'd to weare the dresing of his lines!

which were o richly pun, and wouen o fit,
 * As, ince, he will vouchafe no other Wit.

The merry Greeke, tart Aritophanes,
 * Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not pleae;

But antiquated, and deerted lye
 * As they were not of Natures family.

Yet mut I not giue Nature all: Thy Art,
 * My gentle Shakepeare, mut enioy a part.

For though the Poets matter, Nature be,
 * His Art doth give the fahion. And, that he,

Who cats to write a liuing line, mut weat,
 * (uch as thine are) and trike the econd heat

Vpon the Mues anuile: turne the ame,
 * (And himelfe with it) that he thinkes to frame;

Or for the lawrell, he may gaine a corne,
 * For a good Poet's made, as well as borne.

And uch wert thou. Looke how the fathers face
 * Liues in his iue; even o, the race

Of Shakepeares minde, and manners brightly hines
 * In his well torned, and true-filed lines:

In each of which, he eemes to hake a Lance,
 * As brandih't at the eyes of Ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Auon! what a light it were
 * To ee thee in our waters yet appeare,

And make thoe flights upon the bankes of Thames,
 * That o did take Eliza, and our Iames!

But tay, I ee thee in the Hemiphere
 * Aduane'd, and made a Contellation there!

Shine forth thou Starre of Poets, and with rage,
 * or influence chide or cheere the drooping Stage;

Which, ince thy flight fro hence, hath mourn'd like night,
 * And depaires day, but for thy Volumes light.