Upon M. Ben. Jonson. Epig.

After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died,     The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride,     Together with the stage's glory, stood     Each like a poor and pitied widowhood.     The cirque profan'd was, and all postures rack'd;     For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act.     Then temper flew from words, and men did squeak,     Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak;     No holy rage or frantic fires did stir     Or flash about the spacious theatre.     No clap of hands, or shout, or praise's proof     Did crack the play-house sides, or cleave her roof.     Artless the scene was, and that monstrous sin     Of deep and arrant ignorance came in:     Such ignorance as theirs was who once hiss'd     At thy unequall'd play, the Alchemist;     Oh, fie upon 'em! Lastly, too, all wit     In utter darkness did, and still will sit,     Sleeping the luckless age out, till that she     Her resurrection has again with thee.