Though in that prouder vault, then, which doth tomb Thy ancestors, thy body find not room, Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place, Which more renowned is than all thy race; 30 For in this earth thou dost ennobled lie With marks of valour and of loyalty.
[_Mr. Edward Holt._] Holt was King's brother-in-law, having married his sister Elizabeth (_v. sup._, p. 173). He died at Oxford in 1643 while attending the King as Groom of the Bedchamber, and was buried in the Cathedral. His father, who outlived him, was a Baronet, and is again abused by King in his will as having been 'implacable'; but the Bishop apparently thought better of his nephew Sir Robert, who was a stout Royalist and churchman both before and after the Restoration. Walton dedicated his _Life of Donne_ to this Sir Robert Holt. His much-abused grandfather had at any rate set the example of loyalty, and is said to have been plundered or extortioned by Parliamentary 'contributions' or 'compositions' to the amount of about £20,000.]
I see that wreath, which doth the wearer arm 'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm To keep off Death's pale dart. For, Jonson, then Thou hadst been number'd still with living men. Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade, Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.
Amongst those many votaries who come To offer up their garlands at thy tomb; Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse (Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse), 10 Shall light the dull and thankless world to see, How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee; Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I Pay meaner rites unto thy memory; And since I nought can add but in desire, Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.
What ends soever others' quills invite, I can protest, it was no itch to write, Nor any vain ambition to be read, But merely love and justice to the dead, 20 Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring, To whose most rich and fruitful bead we owe The purest streams of language which can flow.
For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder age To speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage: Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense, A Lucrece might have heard without offence. Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate Our English, and advance it to the rate 30 And value it now holds, thyself was one Help'd lift it up to such proportion; That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spare With the full Greek or Latin to compare. For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state? Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine, From Chapman's pen, and from thy _Catiline_. All I would ask for thee, in recompense Of thy successful toil and time's expense, 40 Is only this poor boon; that those who can Perhaps read French, or talk Italian, Or do the lofty Spaniard affect, To show their skill in foreign dialect, Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise, They therefore should their mother-tongue despise (As if her poets, both for style and wit, Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ), Until by studying Jonson they have known The height and strength and plenty of their own. 50