_The conclusion concerning the whole_, _and the parts_.—_Which are episodes_.—_Ajax and Hector_.—_Homer_.—For the whole, as it consisteth of parts, so without all the parts it is not the whole; and to make it absolute is required not only the parts, but such parts as are true. For a part of the whole was true; which, if you take away, you either change the whole or it is not the whole. For if it be such a part, as, being present or absent, nothing concerns the whole, it cannot be called a part of the whole; and such are the episodes, of which hereafter. For the present here is one example: the single combat of Ajax with Hector, as it is at large described in Homer, nothing belongs to this Ajax of Sophocles.
You admire no poems but such as run like a brewer’s cart upon the stones, hobbling:—
“Et, quæ per salebras, altaque saxa cadunt, Accius et quidquid Pacuviusque vomunt. Attonitusque legis terraï, frugiferaï.” { 160a}
CAMDEN! most reverend head, to whom I owe All that I am in arts, all that I know— How nothing’s that! to whom my country owes The great renown, and name wherewith she goes! Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave, More high, more holy, that she more would crave. What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things! What sight in searching the most antique springs! What weight, and what authority in thy speech! Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach. Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty, Which conquers all, be once o’ercome by thee. Many of thine, this better could, than I; But for their powers, accept my piety.
HERE lies, to each her parents’ ruth, Mary, the daughter of their youth; Yet, all heaven’s gifts, being heaven’s due, It makes the father less to rue. At six months’ end, she parted hence, With safety of her innocence; Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears, In comfort of her mother’s tears, Hath placed amongst her virgin-train; Where, while that severed doth remain, This grave partakes the fleshly birth; Which cover lightly, gentle earth!
FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy; Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. Oh! could I lose all father, now! for why, Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon ’scaped world’s, and flesh’s rage, And, if no other misery, yet age! Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry; For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.