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, stoodEach 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 stirOr flash about the spacious theatre.No clap of hands, or shout, or praise's proofDid crack the play-house sides, or cleave her roof.Artless the scene was, and that monstrous sinOf deep and arrant ignorance came in:Such ignorance as theirs was who once hiss'dAt thy unequall'd play, the Alchemist;Oh, fie upon 'em! Lastly, too, all witIn utter darkness did, and still will sit,Sleeping the luckless age out, till that sheHer resurrection has again with thee.