Chapter II: Part 2

_Disdaine not Gentle Shades, the lowly praise
Which here I tender your immortall Bayes.
Call it not folly, but my zeale, that I
Strive to eternize you that cannot dye.
And though no Language rightly can commend
What you have writ, save what your selves have penn'd;
Yet let me wonder at those curious straines
(The rich Conceptions of your twin-like Braines)
Which drew the Gods attention; who admir'd
To see our English Stage by you inspir'd.
Whose chiming Muses never fail'd to sing
A Soule-affecting Musicke; ravishing
Both Eare and Intellect, while you do each
Contend with other who shall highest reach
In rare Invention; Conflicts that beget
New strange delight, to see two Fancies met,
That could receive no foile: two wits in growth
So just, as had one Soule informed both.
Thence_ (_Learned_ Fletcher) _sung the muse alone,
As both had done before, thy_ Beaumont _gone.
In whom, as thou, had he outlived, so he
(Snatch'd first away) survived still in thee.
What though distempers of the present Age
Have banish'd your smooth numbers from the Stage?
You shall be gainers by't; it shall confer
To th' making the vast world your Theater.
The Presse shall give to ev'ry man his part,
And we will all be Actors; learne by heart
Those Tragick Scenes and Comicke Straines you writ,
Un-imitable both for Art and Wit;
And at each_ Exit, _as your Fancies rise,
Our hands shall clap deserved Plaudities._

John Web.

To the desert of the Author in his most Ingenious Pieces.

_Thou art above their Censure, whose darke Spirits
Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits;
That have no soule, nor reason to their will,
But rime as ragged, as a Ganders Quill:
Where Pride blowes up the Error, and transfers
Their zeale in Tempests, that so wid'ly errs.
Like heat and Ayre comprest, their blind desires
Mixe with their ends, as raging winds with fires.
Whose Ignorance and Passions, weare an eye
Squint to all parts of true Humanity.
All is_ Apocripha _suits not their vaine:
For wit, oh fye! and Learning too; prophane!
But_ Fletcher _hath done Miracles by wit,
And one Line of his may convert them yet.
Tempt them into the State of knowledge, and
Happinesse to read and understand.
The way is strow'd with_ Lawrell, _and ev'ry Muse
Brings Incense to our_ Fletcher: _whose Scenes infuse
Such noble kindlings from her pregnant fire,
As charmes her Criticke Poets in desire,
And who doth read him, that parts lesse indu'd,
Then with some heat of wit or Gratitude.
Some crowd to touch the Relique of his Bayes,
Some to cry up their owne wit in his praise,
And thinke they engage it by Comparatives,
When from himselfe, himselfe he best derives.
Let_ Shakespeare, Chapman, _and applauded_ Ben,
_Weare the Eternall merit of their Pen,
Here I am love-sicke: and were I to chuse,
A Mistris corrivall 'tis_ Fletcher's _Muse._

George Buck.

On Mr BEAUMONT.

(Written thirty years since, presently after his death.)

Beaumont _lyes here; and where now shall we have
A Muse like his to sigh upon his grave?
Ah! none to weepe this with a worthy teare,
But he that cannot,_ Beaumont, _that lies here.
Who now shall pay thy Tombe with such a Verse
As thou that Ladies didst, faire_ Rutlands _Herse?
A Monument that will then lasting be,
When all her Marble is more dust than she.
In thee all's lost: a sudden dearth and want
Hath seiz'd on Wit, good Epitaphs are scant;
We dare not write thy Elegie, whilst each feares
He nere shall match that coppy of thy teares.
Scarce in an Age a Poet, and yet he
Scarce lives the third part of his age to see,
But quickly taken off and only known,
Is in a minute shut as soone as showne._
_Why should weake Nature tire her selfe in vaine
In such a peice, to dash it straight againe?
Why should she take such worke beyond her skill,
Which when she cannot perfect, she must kill?
Alas, what is't to temper slime or mire?
But Nature's puzled when she workes in fire:
Great Braines (like brightest glasse) crack straight, while those
Of Stone or Wood hold out, and feare not blowes.
And wee their Ancient hoary heads can see
Whose Wit was never their mortality:_
Beaumont _dies young, so_ Sidney _did before,
There was not Poetry he could live to more,
He could not grow up higher, I scarce know
If th' art it selfe unto that pitch could grow,
Were't not in thee that hadst arriv'd the hight
Of all that wit could reach, or Nature might.
O when I read those excellent things of thine,
Such Strength, such sweetnesse coucht in every line,
Such life of Fancy, such high choise of braine,
Nought of the Vulgar wit or borrowed straine,
Such Passion, such expressions meet my eye,
Such Wit untainted with obscenity,
And these so unaffectedly exprest,
All in a language purely flowing drest,
And all so borne within thy selfe, thine owne,
So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon.
I grieve not now that old_ Menanders _veine
Is ruin'd to survive in thee againe;
Such in his time was he of the same peece,
The smooth, even naturall Wit, and Love of Greece.
Those few sententious fragments shew more worth,
Then all the Poets_ Athens _ere brought forth;
And I am sorry we have lost those houres
On them, whose quicknesse comes far short of ours,
And dwell not more on thee, whose every Page
May be a patterne for their Scene and Stage.
I will not yeeld thy Workes so meane a Prayse;
More pure, more chaste, more sainted then are Playes,
Nor with that dull supinenesse to be read,
To passe a fire, or laugh an houre in bed.
How doe the Muses suffer every where,
Taken in such mouthes censure, in such eares,
That twixt a whiffe, a Line or two rehearse,
And with their Rheume together spaule a Verse?
This all a Poems leisure after Play,
Drinke or Tabacco, it may keep the Day.
Whilst even their very idlenesse they thinke
Is lost in these, that lose their time in drinkt._
_Pity then dull we, we that better know,
Will a more serious houre on thee bestow,
Why should not_ Beaumont _in the Morning please,
As well as_ Plautus, Aristophanes?
_Who if my Pen may as my thoughts be free,
Were scurrill Wits and Buffons both to Thee;
Yet these our Learned of severest brow
Will deigne to looke on, and to note them too,
That will defie our owne, tis English stuffe,
And th' Author is not rotten long enough.
Alas what flegme are they, compared to thee,
In thy_ Philaster, _and_ Maids-Tragedy?
_Where's such an humour as thy_ Bessus? _pray
Let them put all their_ Thrasoes _in one Play,
He shall out-bid them; their conceit was poore,
All in a Circle of a Bawd or Whore;
A cozning dance, take the foole away,
And not a good jest extant in a Play.
Yet these are Wits, because they'r old, and now
Being Greeke and Latine, they are Learning too:
But those their owne Times were content t' allow
A thirsty fame, and thine is lowest now.
But thou shalt live, and when thy Name is growne
Six Ages older, shall be better knowne,
When th' art of_ Chaucers _standing in the Tombe,
Thou shalt not share, but take up all his roome._

Joh. Earle.

UPON Mr FLETCHERS

Incomparable Playes.

_The Poet lives; wonder not how or why_
Fletcher _revives, but that he er'e could dye:
Safe_ Mirth, _full_ Language, _flow in ev'ry Page,
At once he doth both_ heighten _and_ aswage;
_All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and cleare,
Nor_ Church _nor_ Lawes _were ever Libel'd here;
But faire deductions drawn from his great Braine,
Enough to conquer all that's_ False _or_ Vaine;
_He scatters Wit, and Sence so freely flings
That very_ Citizens _speake handsome things,
Teaching their_ Wives _such unaffected grace,
Their_ Looks _are now as handsome as their_ Face.
_Nor is this violent, he steals upon
The yeilding Soule untill the_ Phrensie's _gone_;
_His very_ Launcings _do the Patient_ please,
_As when good_ Musicke _cures a_ Mad Disease.
_Small Poets rifle Him, yet thinke it faire,
Because they rob a man that well can spare;
They feed upon him, owe him every bit,
Th'are all but_ Sub-excisemen _of his Wit._

J. M.

On the Workes of _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_, now at length printed.

_Great paire of Authors, whom one equall Starre
Begot so like in_ Genius, _that you are
In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit,
That no man knowes where to divide your wit,
Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire,
And did each other mutually inspire;
Whether one did contrive, the other write,
Or one framed the plot, the other did indite;
Whether one found the matter, th'other dresse,
Or the one disposed what th'other did expresse;
Where e're your parts betweene your selves lay, we,
In all things which you did but one thred see,
So evenly drawne out, so gently spunne,
That Art with Nature nere did smoother run.
Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what part
Of all your numerous Labours hath desert
More to be fam'd then other? shall I say,
I've met a lover so drawne in your Play,
So passionately written, so inflamed,
So jealously inraged, then gently tam'd,
That I in reading have the Person seene.
And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been?
Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbeare
To clap, when I a Captain do meet there,
So lively in his owne vaine humour drest,
So braggingly, and like himself exprest,
That moderne Cowards, when they saw him plaid,
Saw, blusht, departed guilty, and betraid?
You wrote all parts right; whatsoe're the Stage
Had from you, was seene there as in the age,
And had their equall life: Vices which were
Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:
_They who possest a Box, and halfe Crowns spent
To learne Obscenenes, returned innocent,
And thankt you for this coznage, whose chaste Scene
Taught Loves so noble, so reformed, so cleane,
That they who brought foule fires, and thither came
To bargaine, went thence with a holy flame.
Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and Veyne
Held both to Tragick and to Comick straine;
Where e're you listed to be high and grave,
No Buskin shew'd more solem[n]e, no quill gave
Such feeling objects to draw teares from eyes,
Spectators sate part in your Tragedies.
And where you listed to be low, and free,
Mirth turn'd the whole house into Comedy;
So piercing (where you pleas'd) hitting a fault,
That humours from your pen issued all salt.
Nor were you thus in Works and Poems knit,
As to be but two halfes, and make one wit;
But as some things we see, have double cause,
And yet the effect it selfe from both whole drawes;
So though you were thus twisted and combind
As two bodies, to have but one faire minde
Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say
Both joyn'd, and both did wholly make the Play,
For that you could write singly, we may guesse
By the divided peeces which the Presse
Hath severally sent forth; nor were gone so
(Like some our Moderne Authors) made to go
On meerely by the helpe of the other, who
To purchase fame do come forth one of two;
Nor wrote you so, that ones part was to lick
The other into shape, nor did one stick
The others cold inventions with such wit,
As served like spice, to make them quick and fit;
Nor out of mutuall want, or emptinesse,
Did you conspire to go still twins to th' Presse:
But what thus joy tied you wrote, might have come forth
As good from each, and stored with the same worth
That thus united them, you did joyne sense,
In you 'twas League, in others impotence;
And the Presse which both thus amongst us sends,
Sends us one Poet in a faire of friends._

Jasper Maine.

Upon the report of the printing of the Dramaticall Poems of Master _John Fletcher_, collected before, and now set forth in one Volume.

_Though when all_ Fletcher _writ, and the entire
Man was indulged unto that sacred fire,
His thoughts, and his thoughts dresse, appeared both such,
That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;
Who therefore wisely did submit each birth
To knowing_ Beaumont _e're it did come forth,
Working againe untill he said 'twas fit,
And made him the sobriety of his wit;
Though thus he call'd his Judge into his fame,
And for that aid allow'd him halfe the name,
'Tis knowne, that sometimes he did stand alone,
That both the Spunge and Pencill were his owne;
That himselfe judged himselfe, could singly do,
And was at last_ Beaumont _and_ Fletcher _too;
Else we had lost his_ Shepherdesse, _a piece
Even and smooth, spun from a finer fleece,
Where softnesse raignes, where passions passions greet,
Gentle and high, as floods of Balsam meet.
Where dressed in white expressions, sit bright Loves,
Drawne, like their fairest Queen, by milkie Doves;
A piece, which_ Johnson _in a rapture bid
Come up a glorifi'd Worke, and so it did.
Else had his Muse set with his friend; the Stage
Had missed those Poems, which yet take the Age;
The world had lost those rich exemplars, where
Art, Language, Wit, sit ruling in one Spheare,
Where the fresh matters soare above old Theames,
As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreames;
Where in a worthy scorne he dares refuse
All other Gods, and makes the thing his Muse;
Where he calls passions up, and layes them so,
As spirits, aw'd by him to come and go;
Where the free Author did what e're he would,
And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.
No vast uncivill bulke swells any Scene,
The strength's ingenious, a[n]d the vigour cleane;
None can prevent the Fancy, and see through
At the first opening; all stand wondring how
The thing will be untill it is; which thence
With fresh delight still cheats, still takes the sence;
The whole designe, the shadowes, the lights such
That none can say he shelves or hides too much:_
_Businesse growes up, ripened by just encrease,
And by as just degrees againe doth cease,
The heats and minutes of affaires are watcht,
And the nice points of time are met, and snatcht:
Nought later then it should, nought comes before,
Chymists, and Calculators doe erre more:
Sex, age, degree, affections, country, place,
The inward substance, and the outward face;
All kept precisely, all exactly fit,
What he would write, he was before he writ.
'Twixt_ Johnsons _grave, and_ Shakespeares _lighter sound
His muse so steer'd that something still was found,
Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his owne,
That 'twas his marke, and he was by it knowne.
Hence did he take true judgements, hence did strike,
All pallates some way, though not all alike:
The god of numbers might his numbers crowne,
And listning to them wish they were his owne.
Thus welcome forth, what ease, or wine, or wit
Durst yet produce, that is, what_ Fletcher _writ._

Another.

Fletcher, _though some call it thy fault, that wit
So overflow'd thy scenes, that ere 'twas fit
To come upon the Stage,_ Beaumont _was faine
To bid thee be more dull, that's write againe,
And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came
In a cleare, bright, full, but too large a flame;
And after all (finding thy Genius such)
That blunted, and allayed, 'twas yet too much;
Added his sober spunge, and did contract
Thy plenty to lesse wit to make't exact:
Yet we through his corrections could see
Much treasure in thy superfluity,
Which was so fil'd away, as when we doe
Cut Jewels, that that's lost is jewell too:
Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know
By losing makes the streame thence wealthy grow.
They who doe on thy worker severely sit,
And call thy store the over-births of wit,
Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when
Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen
Had no fault but abundance, which did lay
Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play;
And hence doe grant, that what they call excesse
Was to be reckon'd as thy happinesse,
From whom wit issued in a full spring-tide;
Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside._
_For that thou couldst thine owne free fancy binde
In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd
As to observe the rules of Art, which sway
In the contrivance of a true borne Play:
These workes proclaime which thou didst write retired
From_ Beaumont, _by none but thy selfe inspired;
Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,
Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit,
But like to_ Durers _Pencill, which first knew
The lawes of faces, and then faces drew:
Thou knowst the aire, the colour, and the place,
The simetry, which gives a Poem grace:
Parts are so fitted unto parts, as doe
Shew thou hadst wit, and Mathematicks too:
Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispence,
And didst beget just Comedies from thence:
Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,
That they (their owne Black-Friers) unacted breath._
Johnson _hath writ things lasting, and divine,
Yet his Love-Scenes,_ Fletcher, _compar'd to thine,
Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,
As heat with Ice, or warme fires mixt with Snow;
Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts,
Which burne, and raigne in noble Lovers hearts,
Hast cloath'd affections in such native tires,
And so describ'd them in their owne true fires;
Such moving sighes, suc[h] undissembled teares,
Such charmes of language, such hopes mixt with feares,
Such grants after denialls, such pursuits
After despaire, such amorous recruits,
That some who sate spectators have confest
Themselves transformed to what they saw exprest,
And felt such shafts steale through their captiv'd sence,
As made them rise Parts, and goe Lovers thence.
Nor was thy stile wholly compos'd of Groves,
Or the soft straines of Shepheards and their Loves;
When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth
In that kinde, came into the world all mirth,
All point, all edge, all sharpnesse; we did sit
Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,
Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubt
In which Scene we laught most two shillings out._
Shakespeare _to thee was dull, whose best jest lyes
I'th Ladies questions, and the Fooles replyes;
Old fashioned wit, which walkt from town to town
In turn'd Hose, which our fathers call'd the Clown;
Whose wit our nice times would obsceannesse call,
And which made Bawdry passe for Comicall:_
_Nature was all his Art, thy veine was free
As his, but without his scurility;
From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplext,
But without labour cleane, chast, and unvext.
Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who
Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;
Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealth
In Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth;
Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes,
Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes,
Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,
But to their Benefactors dole aspires.
Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy selfe to praise
Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes
Didst write stale commendations to thy Booke,
Which we for_ Beaumonts _or_ Ben. Johnsons _tooke:
That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he
Can truly pay,_ Fletcher, _who writes like thee._

William Cartwright.

On Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then newly dead.)

_He that hath such acutenesse, and such witt,
As would aske ten good heads to husband it;
He that can write so well that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:_
BEAUMONT _is dead, by whose sole death appeares,
Witt's a Disease consumes men in few yeares._

RICH. CORBET. D.D.

To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)

_How I doe love thee_ BEAUMONT, _and thy_ Muse,
_That unto me do'st such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there where most than praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee._

BEN: JOHNSON.

Upon Master FLETCHERS Incomparable Playes.

_Apollo sings, his harpe resounds; give roome,
For now behold the golden Pompe is come,
Thy Pompe of Playes which thousands come to see,
With admiration both of them and thee,
O Volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover
To be with juice of Cedar washt all over;
Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent,
To raise an Act to full astonishment;
Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoone, and Maides to dye for love.
Love lyes a bleeding here,_ Evadne _there
Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where,
Here's a_ mad lover, _there that high designe
Of_ King and no King (_and the rare Plot thine_)
_So that when 'ere wee circumvolve our Eyes,
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varietyes,
Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see
None writes lov's passion in the world, like Thee._

ROB. HERRICK.

On the happy Collection of Master _FLETCHER'S_ Works, never before PRINTED.

FLETCHER _arise, Usurpers share thy Bayes,
They_ Canton _thy vast Wit to build small_ Playes:
_He comes! his_ Volume _breaks through clowds and dust,
Downe, little Witts, Ye must refund, Ye must._
_Nor comes he private, here's great_ BEAUMONT _too,
How could one single World encompasse Two?
For these Co-heirs had equall power to teach
All that all Witts both can and cannot reach._
Shakespear _was early up, and went so drest
As for those_ dawning _houres he knew was best;
But when the Sun shone forth,_ You Two _thought fit
To weare just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.
Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must looke for New,
Manners and Scenes may alter, but not_ You;
_For Yours are not meere_ Humours, _gilded straines;
The Fashion lost, Your massy_ Sense _remaines.
Some thinke Your Witts of two Complexions fram'd,
That One the_ Sock, _th'Other the_ Buskin _claim'd;
That should the Stage_ embattaile _all it's Force,_
FLETCHER _would lead the Foot,_ BEAUMONT _the Horse.
But, you were Both for Both; not Semi-witts,
Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:
Y'are not Two_ Faculties (_and one_ Soule _still)
But th'_ Understanding, _Thou the quick free_ Will;
_But, as two_ Voyces _in one Song embrace,_
(FLETCHER'S _keen_ Trebble, _and deep_ BEAUMONTS Base)
_Two, full, Congeniall Soules; still Both prevail'd;
His Muse and Thine were_ Quarter'd _not_ Impal'd:
_Both brought Your Ingots, Both toil'd at the Mint,
Beat, melted, sifted, till no drosse stuck in't,
Then in each Others scales weighed every graine,
Then smooth'd and burnish'd, then weigh'd all againe,
Stampt Both your Names upon't by one bold Hit,
Then, then'twas Coyne, as well as Bullion-Wit.

Thus Twinns: But as when Fate one Eye deprives,
That other strives to double which survives:
So_ BEAUMONT _dy'd: yet left in Legacy
His Rules and Standard-wit_ (FLETCHER) _to Thee.
Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon,
A Two-horn'd_ Crescent _then, now one_ Full-moon.
_Joynt_ Love _before, now_ Honour _doth provoke;
So th' old Twin_-Giants _forcing a huge Oake
One slipp'd his footing, th' Other sees him fall,
Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all.
Imperiall_ FLETCHER! _here begins thy Raigne,
Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain;
Thy swift dispatching Soule no more doth stay
Then He that built two Citties in one day;
Ever brim full, and sometimes running o're
To feede poore languid Witts that waite at doore,
Who creep and creep, yet ne're above-ground stood,
(For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood)
But thou art still that_ Bird of Paradise
_Which hath_ no feet _and ever nobly_ flies:
_Rich, lusty Sence, such as the_ Poet _ought,
For_ Poems _if not Excellent, are Naught;
Low wit in Scenes? in state a Peasant goes;
If meane and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose,
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,
To whom He that writes Wit, shews he hath none._
_Brave_ Shakespeare _flow'd, yet had his Ebbings too,
Often above Himselfe, sometimes below;
Thou Alwayes Best; if ought seem'd to decline,
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine:
Thus thy faire_ SHEPHEARDESSE, _which the bold Heape
(False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,_
_Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd,
At wont 'twas worth_ two hundred thousand pound.
_Some blast thy_ Works _lest we should track their Walke
Where they steale all those few good things they talke;
Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,
For Plundered folkes ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth)
Thy strong Sence_ pall's _when they purloine it forth.
When did'st_ Thou _borrow? wkere's the man e're read
Ought begged by_ Thee _from those Alive or Dead?
Or from dry_ Goddesses, _as some who when
They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.
Thou was't thine_ owne _Muse, and hadst such vast odds
Thou out-writ'st him whose verse_ made _all those_ Godds:
_Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,
As much as_ Greeks _or_ Latines _thee in yeares:
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms,
We ebbe downe dry to pebble_-Anagrams;
_Dead and insipid, all despairing sit
Lost to behold this great_ Relapse _of_ Wit:
_What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)
Till_ Johnson _made good Poets and right Verse.
Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke,
Save when she'd show how scurvily they looke;
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
Thou dost_ display, _not_ butcher _a Conceit;
Thy Nerves have_ Beauty, _which Invades and Charms;
Lookes like a Princesse harness'd in bright Armes.
Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;
Tearing themselves, and almost split their braine
To render harsh what thou speak'st free and cleane;
Such gloomy Sense may pass for_ High _and_ Proud,
_But true-born Wit still flies_ above _the_ Cloud;
_Thou knewst 'twas_ Impotence _what they call_ Height;
_Who blusters strong i'th Darke, but_ creeps _i'th Light.
And as thy thoughts were_ cleare, _so_, Innocent;
_Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;
Slaunderst not_ Lawes, _prophan'st no_ holy Page,
(_As if thy Fathers_ Crosier _aw'd the Stage_;)
_High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
To prosper out_ foure Acts, _were plagu'd i'th_ Fift:
_All's safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,
Nor_ swoln, _nor_ flat, _a True Full Naturall veyne;
Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skinn'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor City-startcht and pinn'd.
Thou hadst no Sloath, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
But_ Strength _and_ Mirth, FLETCHER'S _a_ Sanguin _Wit_.
_Thus, two great_ Consul-_Poets all things swayd,
Till all was_ English _Borne or_ English _Made:_
Miter _and_ Coyfe _here into One Piece spun_,
BEAUMONT _a_ Judge's, _This a_ Prelat's _sonne.
What Strange Production is at last displaid,
(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aide)
Behold, two_ Masculines _espous'd each other_,
Wit _and the World were born without a_ Mother.

J. BERKENHEAD.

To the memorie of Master _FLETCHER._

_There's nothing gained by being witty: Fame
Gathers but winde to blather up a name_.
Orpheus _must leave his lyre, or if it be
In heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony,
And stones, that follow'd him, may now become
Now stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb.
The Theban_ Linus, _that was ably skil'd
In Muse and Musicke, was by_ Phoebus _kill'd,
Though_ Phoebus _did beget him: sure his Art
Had merited his balsame, not his dart.
But here_ Apollo's _jealousie is seene,
The god of Physicks troubled with the spleene;
Like timerous Kings he puts a period
To high grown parts lest he should be no God.
Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gave
Life to the world, could not avoid a grave.
Hence the inspired Prophets of old_ Rome
_Too great for earth fled to_ Elizium.
_But the same Ostracisme benighted one,
To whom all these were but illusion;
It tooke our_ FLETCHER _hence_, Fletcher, _whose wit
Was not an accident to th' soule, but It;
Onely diffused. (Thus wee the same Sun call,
Moving it'h Sphære, and shining on a wall.)
Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climbe,
Wit, that ne're grew, but only show'd by time.
No fier-worke of sacke, no seldome show'n
Poeticke rage, but still in motion:
And with far more then Sphericke excellence
It mov'd, for 'twas its owns Intelligence.
And yet so obvious to sense, so plaine,
You'd scarcely thinke't allyd unto the braine:_
_So sweete, it gained more ground upon the Stage
Then_ Johnson _with his selfe-admiring rage
Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell,
That fooles would think, that they could doe as well.
This is our losse: yet spight of_ Phoebus, _we
Will keepe our_ FLETCHER, _for his wit is He_.

EDW. POWELL.

Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His PLAYES.

_What's all this preparation for? or why
Such suddain Triumphs?_ FLETCHER _the people cry!
Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits run
Claret, as here the spouts flow_ Helicon;
_See, every sprightfull_ Muse _dressed trim and gay
Strews hearts and scatters roses in his way.
Thus th'outward yard set round with_ bayes _w'have seene,
Which from the garden hath transplanted been:
Thus, at the Prætor's feast, with needlesse costs
Some must b'employd in painting of the posts:
And some as dishes made for sight, not taste,
Stand here as things for shew to_ FLETCHERS _feast.
Oh what an honour! what a Grace 'thad beene
T'have had his Cooke in_ Rollo _serv'd them in!_
FLETCHER _the King of Poets! such was he,
That earned all tribute, claimed all soveraignty;
And may he that denye's it, learn to blush
At's_ loyall Subject, _starve at's_ Beggars bush:
_And if not drawn by example, shame, nor Grace,
Turne o've to's_ Coxcomb, _and the Wild-goose Chase.
Monarch of Wit! great Magazine of wealth!
From whose rich_ Banke, _by a Promethean-stealth,
Our lesser flames doe blaze! His the true fire,
When they like Glo-worms, being touch'd, expire,
'Twas first beleev'd, because he alwayes was,
The_ Ipse dixit, _and_ Pythagoras
_To our Disciple-wits; His soule might run
(By the same-dream't-of Transmigration)
Into their rude and indigested braine,
And so informe their Chaos-lump againe;
For many specious brats of this last age
Spoke_ FLETCHER _perfectly in every Page.
This rowz'd his Rage to be abused thus:
Made'_s Lover mad, Lieutenant humerous.
_Thus_ Ends of Gold and Silver-men _are made
(As th'use to say) Goldsmiths of his owne trade;
Thus_ Rag-men _from the dung-hill often hop,
And publish forth by chance a Brokers shop:
But by his owne light, now, we have descri'd
The drosse, from that hath beene so purely tri'd_.
Proteus _of witt! who reads him doth not see
The manners of each sex of each degree!
His full stor'd fancy doth all humours fill
From th'_Queen _of_ Corinth _to_ the maid o'th mill;
_His_ Curate, Lawyer, Captain, Prophetesse
_Shew he was all and every one of these;
Hee taught (so subtly were their fancies seized)_
To Rule a Wife, and yet the Women pleas'd.
Parnassus _is thine owne, Claime't as merit,
Law makes the Elder Brother to inherit.

G. Hills._

IN HONOUR OF Mr _John Fletcher_.

_So_ FLETCHER _now presents to fame
His alone selfe and unpropt name,
As Rivers Rivers entertaine,
But still fall single into th'maine,
So doth the Moone in Consort shine
Yet flowes alone into its mine,
And though her light be joyntly throwne,
When she makes silver tis her owne:
Perhaps his quill flew stronger, when
Twas weaved with his_ Beaumont's _pen;
And might with deeper wonder hit,
It could not shew more his, more wit;
So Hercules came by sexe and Love,
When Pallas sprang from single Jove;
He tooke his_ BEAUMONT _for Embrace,
Not to grow by him, and increase,
Nor for support did with him twine,
He was his friends friend, not his vine.
His witt with witt he did not twist
To be Assisted, but t' Assist.
And who could succour him, whose quill
Did both Run sense and sense Distill?
Had Time and Art in't, and the while
Slid even as theirs wh'are only style,
Whether his chance did cast it so
Or that it did like Rivers flow
Because it must, or whether twere
A smoothnesse from his file and care,
Not the most strict enquiring nayle
Cou'd e're finde where his piece did faile
Of entyre onenesse; so the frame,
Was Composition, yet the same.
How does he breede his Brother! and
Make wealth and estate understand?
Sutes Land to wit, makes Lucke match merit,
And makes an Eldest fitly inherit:
How was he _Ben_, when _Ben_ did write
Toth' stage, not to his judge endite?
How did he doe what _Johnson_ did.
And Earne what _Johnson_ wou'd have s'ed?

Jos. Howe of Trin. Coll. Oxon.

Master _John Fletcher_ his dramaticall
Workes now at last printed.

I Could prayse _Heywood_ now: or tell how long,
_Falstaffe_ from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:
But for a _Fletcher_, I must take an Age,
And scarce invent the Title for one Page.
Gods must create new Spheres, that should expresse
The sev'rall Accents, _Fletcher_, of thy Dresse:
The Penne of Fates should only write thy Praise:
And all _Elizium_ for thee turne to Bayes.
Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they.
Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play,
And search the _Ephemerides_ to finde,
When the Aspect for Poets will be kinde.
Thy Poems (sacred Spring) did from thee flow,
With as much pleasure, as we reads them now.
Nor neede we only take them up by fits,
When love or Physicke hath diseased our Wits;
Or constr'e English to untye a knot.
Hid in a line, farre subtler then the Plot.
With Thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes,
And yet with thee the serious Student Rise:
The Eye at sev'rall angles darting rayes,
Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Playes
To ev'ry understanding still appeare,
As if thou only meant'st to take that Eare;
The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,
Where ev'ry word ha's weight and yet no Noise,
The matter too so nobly fit, no lesse
Then such as onely could deserve thy Dresse:
Witnesse thy Comedies, Pieces of such worth,
All Ages shall still like, but ne're bring forth.
Other in season last scarce so long time,
As cost the Poet but to make the Rime:
Where, if a Lord a new way do's but spit,
Or change his shrugge this antiquates the Wit.
That thou didst live before, nothing would tell
Posterity, could they but write so well.
Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance finde,
Not whilst an humours living, but Man-kinde.
Thou, like thy Writings, Innocent and Cleane,
Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scæne,
None of thy Inke had gall, and Ladies can,
Securely heare thee sport without a Fanne.
But when Thy Tragicke Muse would please to rise
In Majestie, and call Tribute from our Eyes;
Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so,
Who only came to see, turned Actors too.
How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feele
The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele!
Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knows
When the Spectators ran to save the blow?
Frozen with griefe we could not stir away
Untill the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.
What shall I doe? all Commendations end,
In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?
Give me thy spirit quickely, for I swell,
And like a raveing Prophetesse cannot tell
How to receive thy Genius in my breast:
Oh! I must sleepe, and then I'le sing the rest.

T. Palmer of Ch. Ch. Oxon.

Upon the unparalelld Playes written by those Renowned Twinnes of Poetry BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

What's here? another Library of prayse,
Met in a Troupe t'advance contemned Playes
And bring exploded Witt againe in fashion?
I can't but wonder at this Reformation,
_My skipping soule surfets with so much good,
To see my hopes into_ fruition _budd.
A happy_ Chimistry! _blest viper_, joy!
_That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way!
Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect
In spight of_ Ignorance _the Architect
Of Occidentall_ Poesye; _and turne
Godds, to recall_ witts _ashes from their urne.
Like huge_ Collosses _they've together mett
Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt.
The tale of_ Atlas (_though of truth it misse_)
_We plainely read_ Mythologiz'd _in this_;
Orpheus _and_ Amphion _whose undying stories
Made_ Athens _famous, are but_ Allegories.
_Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilize
Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees,
I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall)
That witt is past its_ Climactericall;
_And though the_ Muses _have beene dead and gone
I know they'll finde a_ Resurrection.
_Tis vaine to prayse; they're to themselves a glory,
And silence is our sweetest_ Oratory.
_For he that names but_ FLETCHER _must needs be
Found guilty of a loud_ hyperbole.
_His fancy so transcendently aspires,
He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires.
Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,
The very_ Anagrams _of Eloquence,
Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,
Being rightly spelld, but Witts_ Stenographie.
_Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,
Only cesura'd to spin out the time.
But heer's a_ Magazine _of purest sence
Cloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence.
Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veines
Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines.
Lines like their_ Authours, _and each word of it
Does say twas writ b' a_ Gemini _of Witt.
How happie is our age! how blest our men!
When such rare soules live themselves o're agen.
We erre, that thinke a Poet dyes; for this,
Shewes that tis but a_ Metempsychosis.
BEAUMONT _and_ FLETCHER _here at last we see
Above the reach of dull mortalitie,
Or pow'r of fate: thus the proverbe hitts
(Thats so much crost) These men live by their witts_.

ALEX. BROME.

On the Death and workes of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

_My name, so far from great, that tis not knowne,
Can lend no praise but what thou'dst blush to own;
And no rude hand, or feeble wit should dare
To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned teare.
I'de have a State of Wit convoked, which hath
A power to take up on common Faith;
That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome's spent
In but preparative to thy Monument,
The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayes
To get new contribution to thy prayse,
And reare it high, and equall to thy Wit
Which must give life and Monument to it.
So when late_ ESSEX _dy'd, the Publicke face
Wore sorrow in't, and to add mournefull Grace
To the sad pomp of his lamented fall,
The Common wealth served at his Funerall
And by a Solemne Order built his Hearse.
But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse,
Where thy advanced Image safely stands
Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands.
Base hands how impotently you disclose
Your rage 'gainst_ Camdens _learned ashes, whose
Defaced Statua and Martyrd booke,
Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke._
Nonnulla desunt's _legibly appeare,
So truly now_ Camdens Remaines _lye there.
Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath
Of fame shall speake his great_ Elizabeth!
_'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath,_
Brittannia _is the Tombe and Epitaph.
Thus Princes honours: but Witt only gives
A name which to succeeding ages lives.
Singly we now consult our selves and fame,
Ambitious to twist ours with thy great name.
Hence we thus bold to praise. For as a Vine
With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine
A friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots
And gathers growth and moysture from its roots;
About its armes the thankfull clusters cling
Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling
The blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haire
Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.
So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe
Borrow support and strength and lend but show._
_And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun
Strongly begets upon our passion.
Making our sorrow teeme with Elegie,
Thou yet unwep'd, and yet unprais'd might'st be.
But th' are imperfect births; and such are all
Produc'd by causes not univocall,
The scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit,
And hence our verse speakes only Mother wit.
Oh for a fit o'th Father! for a Spirit
That might but parcell of thy worth inherit;
For but a sparke of that diviner fire
Which thy full breast did animate and inspire;
That Soules could be divided, thou traduce
But a small particle of thine to us!
Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sit
But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit;
When it had plummets hung on to suppresse
It's too luxuriant growing mightinesse:
Till as that tree which scornes to bee kept downe,
Thou grewst to govern the whole Stage alone.
In which orbe thy throng'd light did make the star,
Thou wert th' Intelligence did move that Sphere.
Thy Fury was composed; Rapture no fit
That hung on thee; nor thou far gone in witt
As men in a disease; thy Phansie cleare,
Muse chast, as those frames whence they tooke their fire;
No spurious composures amongst thine
Got in adultery 'twixt Witt and Wine.
And as th' Hermeticall Physitians draw
From things that curse of the first-broken Law,
That_ Ens Venenum, _which extracted thence
Leaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence:
So was thy Spirit calcined; no Mixtures there
But perfect, such as next to Simples are.
Not like those Meteor-wits which wildly flye
In storme and thunder through th' amazed skie;
Speaking but th'Ills and Villanies in a State,
Which fooles admire, and wise men tremble at,
Full of portent and prodigie, whose Gall
Oft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall.
Nature us'd all her skill, when thee she meant
A Wit at once both Great and Innocent.
Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy judgement, not
For mending one word, a whole sheet to blot.
Thou couldst anatomize with ready art
And skilfull hand crimes lockt close up i'th heart.
Thou couldst unfold darke Plots, and shew that path
By which Ambition climbed to Greatnesse hath._
_Thou couldst the rises, turnes, and falls of States,
How neare they were their Periods and Dates;
Couldst mad the Subject into popular rage,
And the grown seas of that great storme asswage,
Dethrone usurping Tyrants, and place there
The lawfull Prince and true Inheriter;
Knewst all darke turnings in the Labyrinth
Of policie, which who but knowes he sinn'th,
Save thee, who un-infected didst walke in't
As the great Genius of Government.
And when thou laidst thy tragicke buskin by
To Court the Stage with gentle Comedie,
How new, how proper th' humours, how express'd
In rich variety, how neatly dress'd
In language, how rare Plots, what strength of Wit
Shin'd in the face and every limb of it!
The Stage grew narrow while thou grewst to be
In thy whole life an_ Exc'llent Comedie.
_To these a Virgin-modesty which first met
Applause with blush and feare, as if he yet
Had not deserv'd; till bold with constant praise
His browes admitted the unsought for Bayes.
Nor would he ravish fame; but left men free
To their owne Vote and Ingenuity.
When His faire_ Shepherdesse _on the guilty Stage,
Was martir'd betweene Ignorance and Rage;
At which the impatient Vertues of those few
Could judge, grew high, cri'd Murther; though he knew
The innocence and beauty of his Childe,
Hee only, as if unconcerned, smil'd.
Princes have gather'd since each scattered grace,
Each line and beauty of that injur'd face;
And on th'united parts breath'd such a fire
As spight of Malice she shall ne're expire.
Attending, not affecting, thus the crowne
Till every hand did help to set it on,
Hee came to be sole Monarch, and did raign
In Wits great Empire, absolute Soveraign.

JOHN HARRIS.

On MR. JOHN FLETC[H]ER's ever to be admired Dramaticall Works.

_I've thought upon't; and thus I may gaine bayes,
I will commend thee_ Fletcher, _and thy Playes.
But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
And passe it'h Croud amongst them for a Wit._
Apollo _knows me not, nor I the Nine,
All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine.
By your leave Gentlemen. You Wits o'th' age,
You that both furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage.
You who the Poet and the Actors fright,
Least that your Censure thin the second night:
Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
There ere was solæcisme in_ FLETCHERS _Inke?
Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?
A happinesse not still alow'd to_ Ben!
_After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost
He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste.
Inspired_, FLETCHER! _here's no vaine-glorious words:
How ev'n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords.
Thy Language so insinuates, each one
Of thy spectators has thy passion.
Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove:
Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love:
Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Ladies can't say
Though_ Stephen _miscarri'd that so did the play:
Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
That_ Lowen, Tailor, _ere could grace thy Scene:
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
Stuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to intice,
How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded,
And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?
Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit,
Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit.
And many a she that to he tane up came,
Tooke up themselves, and after left the game._

HENRY HARINGTON.

To the memory of the deceased but ever-living _Authour_ in these his _Poems_, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.

_On the large train of_ Fletchers _friends let me
(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)
Become a Waiter in my ragged verse,
As Follower to the_ Muses _Followers.
Many here are of Noble ranke and worth,
That have, by strength of Art, set_ Fletcher _forth
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,
And had the best abilities to draw him;_
_Many more are abroad, that write, and looke
To have their lines set before_ Fletchers _Booke;
Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse;
Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse,
And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint
To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
You, that are here before me Gentlemen,
And Princes of_ Parnassus _by the Penne
And your just Judgements of his worth, that have
Preserved this_ Authours _mem'ry from the Grave,
And made it glorious; let me, at your gate,
Porter it here, 'gainst those that come too late,
And are unfit to enter. Something I
Will deserve here: For where you versifie
In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,
I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.
I am admitted. Now, have at the Rowt
Of those that would crowd in, but must keepe out.
Beare back, my Masters; Pray keepe backe; Forbeare:
You cannot, at this time, have entrance here.
You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,
Finde entertainment at the next Impression.
But let none then attempt it, that not know
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:
All such must be excluded; and the sort,
That onely upon trust, or by report
Have taken_ Fletcher _up, and thinke it trim
To have their Verses planted before Him:
Let them read first his Works, and learne to know him,
And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.
But farre from hence be such, as would proclaim
Their knowledge of this_ Authour, _not his Fame;
And such, as would pretend, of all the rest,
To be the best_ Wits _that have known him best.
Depart hence all such Writers, and, before
Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
As formerly, before_ Tom Coryate,
_Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
To perish: For the Witty Coppies tooke
Of his_ Encomiums _made themselves a_ Booke.
_Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,
Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too
In other Spheres:) For_ Fletchers _flourishing Bayes
Must never fade while_ Phoebus _weares his Rayes.
Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.
Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?
Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?
And stil'd (at best) the_ Muses _Serving-creature?_
_Doe you comptroll? Y'have had your Jere: Sirs, no;
But, in an humble manner, let you know
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T' informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,
What they inherit; and how well their Dads
Left one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.
And from departed Poets I can guesse
Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.
'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile,
And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle,
Till with his Swingle he his Noddle breake;
While this of_ Fletcher _and his_ Works _I speake:
His_ Works (_says_ Momus) _nay, his_ Plays _you'd say:
Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play
Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines
Upon the_ Stage; _and shall to th'_ Stationers _gaines
Life after life take, till some After-age
Shall put down_ Printing, _as this doth the_ Stage;
_Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,
But in_ Dumb-shews _her own sad_ Tragedy.
_'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,
Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood._
_But to the Man againe, of whom we write,
The_ Writer _that made Writing his Delight,
Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,
To beget_ Wit, _or manage it: nor trudge
To Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, know
The common talke that from his Lips did flow,
And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,
Then any of his time, or since have writ,
(But few excepted) in the Stages way:
His_ Scenes _were_ Acts, _and every_ Act _a_ Play.
_I knew him in his strength; even then, when_ He
_That was the Master of his Art and Me
Most knowing_ Johnson (_proud to call him_ Sonne)
_In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done_
His very Selfe. _I knew him till he dyed;
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
Of sorrow overwhelm'd the_ Stage; _which gave
Volleys of sighes to send him to his grave.
And grew distracted in most violent Fits
(For_ She _had lost the best part of her_ Wits.)
_In the first yeere, our famous_ Fletcher _fell,
Of good King_ Charles _who graced these_ Poems _well,
Being then in life of Action: But they dyed
Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
As is their_ Poët. _Now at the Report
Of the_ Kings _second comming to his Court,
The_ Bookes _creepe from the_ Presse _to Life, not_ Action,
_Crying unto the World, that no protraction
May hinder_ Sacred Majesty _to give_
Fletcher, _in them, leave on the_ Stage _to live.
Others may more in lofty Verses move;
I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love._

RIC. BROME.

Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN FLETCHERS workes.

_What meanes this numerous Guard? or do we come
To file our Names or Verse upon the Tombe
Of_ Fletcher, _and by boldly making knowne
His Wit, betray the Nothing of our Owne?
For if we grant him dead, it is as true
Against our selves, No Wit, no Poet now;
Or if he be returnd from his coole shade,
To us, this Booke his Resurrection's made,
We bleed our selves to death, and but contrive
By our owne Epitaphs to shew him alive.
But let him live and let me prophesie,
As I goe Swan-like out, Our Peace is nigh;
A Balme unto the wounded Age I sing.
And nothing now is wanting but the King._

JA. SHIRLEY.

_THE STATIONER._

As after th' _Epilogue_ there comes some one
To tell _Spectators_ what shall next be shown;
So here, am I; but though I've toyld and vext,
'Cannot devise what to present 'ye next;
For, since ye saw no _Playes_ this Cloudy weather,
Here we have brought Ye our whole Stock together.
'Tis new and all these _Gentlemen_ attest
Under their hands 'tis Right, and of the Best;
_Thirty foure_ Witnesses (without my taske)
Y'have just so many _Playes_ (besides a _Maske_)
All good (I'me told) as have been _Read_ or _Playd_,
If this Booke faile, tis time to quit the Trade.

_H. MOSELEY_.

POST[S]CRIPT.