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BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.
But, more matured, did his rich soul conceive
And in harmonious holy numbers weave
A crown of sacred sonnets, fit to adorn
A dying martyr’s brow, or to be worn
On that blest head of Mary Magdalen,
After she wiped Christ’s feet, but not till then;
Did he—fit for such penitents as she
And he to use—leave us a Litany,
Which all devout men love, and doubtless shall,
As times grow better, grow more classical?
Did he write hymns, for piety and wit,
Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?”
And in harmonious holy numbers weave
A crown of sacred sonnets, fit to adorn
A dying martyr’s brow, or to be worn
On that blest head of Mary Magdalen,
After she wiped Christ’s feet, but not till then;
Did he—fit for such penitents as she
And he to use—leave us a Litany,
Which all devout men love, and doubtless shall,
As times grow better, grow more classical?
Did he write hymns, for piety and wit,
Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?”
(c) Drummond of Hawthornden made the following note of a remark of Ben Jonson’s to him, in 1618–19 (Conversations, ed. Laing, p. 8)—
“He esteemeth John Done the first poet in the world in some things: his verses of the Lost Chain he hath by heart; and that passage of the Calm, That dust and feathers doe not stirr, all was so quiet. Affirmeth Done to have written all his best pieces ere he was 25 years old.”
(d) The evidence of Walton and Jonson is supported by John Chudleigh in his Elegy, printed with the Poems of 1650.
“Long since this task of tears from you was due,
Long since, O Poets, he did die to you,
Or left you dead, when wit and he took flight
On divine wings, and soar’d out of your sight.
Preachers, ‘tis you must weep; the wit he taught
You do enjoy; the Rebels which he brought
From ancient discord, Giant faculties,
And now no more religious enemies;
Honest to knowing, unto virtuous sweet,
Witty to good, and learned to discreet,
He reconciled, and bid the usurper go;
Dullness to vice, religion ought to flow;
He kept his loves, but not his objects; wit
He did not banish, but transplanted it,
Taught it his place and use, and brought it home
To Piety, which it doth best become;
He shew’d us how for sins we ought to sigh,
And how to sing Christ’s Epithalamy:”
Long since, O Poets, he did die to you,
Or left you dead, when wit and he took flight
On divine wings, and soar’d out of your sight.
Preachers, ‘tis you must weep; the wit he taught
You do enjoy; the Rebels which he brought
From ancient discord, Giant faculties,
And now no more religious enemies;
Honest to knowing, unto virtuous sweet,
Witty to good, and learned to discreet,
He reconciled, and bid the usurper go;
Dullness to vice, religion ought to flow;
He kept his loves, but not his objects; wit
He did not banish, but transplanted it,
Taught it his place and use, and brought it home
To Piety, which it doth best become;
He shew’d us how for sins we ought to sigh,
And how to sing Christ’s Epithalamy:”
