Deceased Authour, Mr John Fletcher,
his Plays; and especially, _The Mad Lover_.

_Whilst his well organ'd body doth retreat,
To its first matter, and the formall heat
Triumphant sits in judgement to approve
Pieces above our Candour and our love:
Such as dare boldly venter to appeare
Unto the curious eye, and Criticke eare:
Lo the_ Mad Lover _in these various times
Is pressed to life, t' accuse us of our crimes.
While_ Fletcher _liv'd, who equall to him writ
Such lasting Monuments of naturall wit?
Others might draw: their lines with sweat, like those
That (with much paines) a Garrison inclose;
Whilst his sweet fluent veine did gently runne
As uncontrold, and smoothly as the Sun.
After his death our Theatres did make
Him in his own unequald Language speake:
And now when all the Muses out of their
Approved modesty silent appeare,
This Play of_ Fletchers _braves the envious light
As wonder of our eares once, now our sight.
Three and fourfold blest Poet, who the Lives
Of Poets, and of Theaters survives!
A Groome, or Ostler of some wit may bring
His Pegasus to the Castalian spring;
Boast he a race o're the Pharsalian plaine,
Or happy_ Tempe _valley dares maintaine:
Brag at one leape upon the double Cliffe
(Were it as high as monstrous Tennariffe)
Of farre-renown'd Parnassus he will get,
And there (t' amaze the World) confirme his state:
When our admired_ Fletcher _vaunts not ought,
And slighted everything he writ as naught:
While all our English wondring world (in's cause)
Made this great City eccho with applause.
Read him therefore all that can read, and those
That cannot learne, if y' are not Learnings foes,
And wilfully resolved to refuse
The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.
From thy great constellation (noble Soule)
Looke on this Kingdome, suffer not the whole
Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven,
But make us entertains what thou hast given.
Earthquakes and Thunder Diapasons make
The Seas vast roare, and irresistlesse shake
Of horrid winds, a sympathy compose;
So in these things there's musicke in the close:
And though they seem great Discords in our eares,
They are not so to them above the Spheares.
Granting these Musicke, how much sweeter's that_
Mnemosyne's _daughter's voyces doe create?
Since Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Ayre consent
To make an Harmony (the Instrument,
Their man agreeing selves) shall we refuse
The Musicke which the Deities doe use?_
Troys _ravisht_ Ganymed _doth sing to_ Jove,
_And_ Phoebus _selfe playes on his Lyre above.
The Cretan Gods, or glorious men, who will
Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill,
Best Poet of thy times, or he will prove
As mad as thy brave_ Memnon _was with love._

ASTON COKAINE, Baronet.


Upon the Works of BEAUMONT,
and FLETCHER.

_How_ Angels (_cloyster'd in our humane Cells_)
_Maintaine their parley,_ Beaumont-Fletcher _tels;
Whose strange unimitable Intercourse
Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force
Of the most forward soules; all must submit
Untill they reach these_ Mysteries _of Wit.
The_ Intellectuall Language _here's exprest,
Admir'd in better times, and dares the Test
Of Ours; for from_ Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, _and_ Sence,
_This Volume springs a new true_ Quintessence.

JO. PETTUS, Knight.


On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. _John F[l]etcher_,
never before Printed.

Haile_ Fletcher, _welcome to the worlds great Stage;
For our two houres, we have thee here an age
In thy whole Works, and may th'_ Impression _call
The_ Pretor _that presents thy Playes to all:
Both to the People, and the_ Lords _that sway
That_ Herd, _and Ladies whom those Lords obey.
And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite
But moves on two Poles,_ Profit _and_ Delight,
_Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest
When every one is tickled with a jest:
And that pure_ Fletcher, _able to subdue
A_ Melancholy _more then_ Burton _knew.
And though upon the by, to his designes
The_ Native _may learne English from his lines,
And_ th' Alien _if he can but construe it,
May here be made free_ Denison _of wit.
But his maine end does drooping_ Vertue _raise,
And crownes her beauty with eternall_ Bayes;
_In Scaenes where she inflames the frozen soule,
While_ Vice _(her paint washt off) appeares so foule;
She must this_ Blessed Isle _and Europe leave,
And some new_ Quadrant _of the_ Globe _deceive:
Or hide her Blushes on the_ Affrike _shore
Like_ Marius, _but ne're rise to_ triumph _more;
That_ honour _is resign'd to_ Fletchers _fame;
Adde to his Trophies, that a_ Poets _name
(Late growne as odious to our_ Moderne _states
As that of_ King _to Rome) he vindicates
From black aspertions, cast upon't by those
Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.

_And_, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,
_What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,
When we name_ Fletcher _shall be so proclaimed,
As all that's_ Royall _is when_ Caesar's _nam'd.

ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.


To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. _Francis Beaumont_.

_I'le not pronounce how strong and cleane thou writes,
Nor by what new hard Rules thou took'st thy Flights,
Nor how much_ Greek _and_ Latin _some refine
Before they can make up six words of thine,
But this I'le say, thou strik'st our sense so deep,
At once thou mak'st us Blush, Rejoyce, and Weep.
Great Father_ Johnson _bow'd himselfe when hee
(Thou writ'st so nobly) vow'd he _envy'd thee_.
Were thy_ Mardonius _arm'd, there would be more
Strife for his Sword then all_ Achilles _wore,
Such wise just Rage, had Hee been lately tryd
My life on't Hee had been o'th' Better side,
And where hee found false odds, (through Gold or Sloath)
There brave_ Mardonius _would have beat them Both.
Behold, here's FLETCHER too! the World ne're knew
Two Potent Witts co-operate till You;
For still your fancies are so wov'n and knit,
'Twas FRANCIS FLETCHER, or JOHN BEAUMONT writ.
Yet neither borrow'd, nor were so put to't
To call poore Godds and Goddesses to do't;
Nor made Nine Girles your_ Muses _(you suppose
Women ne're write, save_ Love-Letters in prose)
_But are your owne Inspirers, and have made
Such pow'rfull Sceanes, as when they please, invade.
Tour Plot, Sence, Language, All's so pure and fit,
Hee's Bold, not Valiant, dare dispute your Wit_.

GEORGE LISLE Knight.


On Mr. _JOHN FLETCHER'S_ Workes.

_So shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Wormes
Had turned to their owne substances and formes,
Whom Earth to Earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire,
Wee shall behold more then at first intire
As now we doe, to see all thine, thine owne
In this thy Muses Resurrection,
Whose scattered parts, from thy owne Race, more wounds
Hath suffer'd, then_ Acteon _from his hounds;
Which first their Braines, and then their Bellies fed,
And from their excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse inraged from her urne
Like Ghosts of Murdred bodyes doth returne
To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit
Gives not more Gold then they give drosse to it:
Who not content like fellons to purloyne,
Adde Treason to it, and debase thy Coyne.
But whither am I strayd? I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other Mens dispraise;
Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruines built,
Nor needs thy juster title the foule guilt
Of Easterne Kings, who to secure their Raigne,
Must have their Brothers, Sonnes, and Kindred slaine.
Then was wits Empire at the fatall height,
When labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprong
Like petty Princes from the fall of_ Rome.
When_ JOHNSON, SHAKESPEARE, _and thy selfe did sit,
And sway'd in the Triumvirate of wit--
Yet what from_ JOHNSONS _oyle and sweat did flow,
Or what more easie nature did bestow
On_ SHAKESPEARES _gentler Muse, in thee full growne
Their Graces both appeare, yet so, that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins
But mixt like th'Elemcnts, and borne like twins,
So interweav'd, so like, so much the same,
None this meere Nature, that meere Art can name:
'Twas this the Ancients meant, Nature and Skill
Are the two topps of their_ Pernassus _Hill_.

J. DENHAM.


Upon Mr. _John Fletcher's_ Playes.

Fletcher, _to thee, wee doe not only owe
All these good Playes, but those of others too:
Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage,
Credits the last and entertaines this age.
No Worthies form'd by any Muse but thine
Could purchase Robes to make themselves so fine:
What brave Commander is not proud to see
Thy brave_ Melantius _in his Gallantry,
Our greatest Ladyes love to see their scorne
Out done by Thine, in what themselves have worne:
Th'impatient Widow ere the yeare be done
Sees thy_ Aspasia _weeping in her Gowne:
I never yet the Tragick straine assay'd
Deterr'd by that inimitable_ Maid:
_And when I venture at the Comick stile
Thy_ Scornfull Lady _seemes to mock my toile:
Thus has thy Muse, at once, improv'd and marr'd
Our Sport in Playes, by rendring it too hard.
So when a sort of lusty Shepheards throw
The barre by turns, and none the rest outgoe
So farre, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;
But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guard
Step in and tosse the Axeltree a yard
Or more beyond the farthest Marke, the rest
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best._

EDW. WALLER.


To FLETCHER Reviv'd.

_How have I been Religious? what strange Good
Ha's scap't me that I never understood?
Have I Hell guarded_ Haeresie _o'rethrowne?
Heald wounded States? made Kings and Kingdomes one?
That_ Fate _should be so mercifull to me,
To let me live t'have said I have read thee.
Faire Star ascend! the Joy! the Life! the Light
Of this tempestuous Age, this darke worlds sight!
Oh from thy Crowne of Glory dart one flame
May strike a sacred Reverence, whilest thy Name
(Like holy_ Flamens _to their God of Day)
We bowing, sing; and whilst we praise, we pray.
Bright Spirit! whose AEternall motion
Of Wit, like_ Time _still in it selfe did runne;
Binding all others in it and did give
Commission, how far this, or that shall live:
Like_ Destinie _of Poems, who, as she
Signes death to all, her selfe can never dye.
And now thy purple-robed_ Tragoedie,
_In her imbroiderd Buskins, calls mine eye,
Where brave_ Ateius _we see betrayed,                    [-Valentinian-]
T'obey his Death, whom thousand lives obeyed;
Whilst that the_ Mighty Foole _his Scepter breakes,
And through his_ Gen'rals _wounds his owne dooms speaks,
Weaving thus richly_ Valentinian
_The costliest Monarch with the cheapest man.
Souldiers may here to their old glories adde_,        [-The Mad Lover.-]
The Lover _love, and be with reason_ mad:
_Not as of old_, Alcides _furious,
Who wilder then his Bull did teare the house,
(Hurling his Language with the Canvas stone)
'Twas thought the Monster roar'd the sob'rer Tone.
But ah, when thou thy sorrow didst inspire         [-Tragi-comedies.-]
With Passions, blacke as is her darke attire,
Virgins as_ Sufferers _have wept to see                       [-Arcas.-]
So white a Soule, so red a Crueltie;                       [-Bellario.-]
That thou hast grieved, and with unthought redresse,
Dri'd their wet eyes who now thy mercy blesse;
Yet loth to lose thy watry Jewell, when                    [-Comedies.-]
Joy wip't it off, Laughter straight sprung't agen.
[-The Spanish Curate.-]
Now ruddy-cheeked_ Mirth _with Rosie wings,
Fanns ev'ry brow with gladnesse, whilest she sings
[-The Humorous Lieutenant.-]
Delight to all, and the whole Theatre
A Festivall in Heaven doth appeare:
Nothing but Pleasure, Love, and (like the Morne)    [-The Tamer Tam'd.-]
Each face a generall smiling doth adorne.  [-The little french Lawyer.-]
Heare ye foule Speakers, that pronounce the Aire
[The custom of the Countrey-]
Of Stewes and Shores, I will informe you where
And how to cloathe aright your wanton wit,
Without her nasty Bawd attending it.
View here a loose thought said with such a grace,
Minerva might have spoke in Venus face;
So well disguis'd, that t'was conceiv'd by none
But Cupid had Diana's linnen on;
And all his naked parts so vail'd, th' expresse
The Shape with clowding the uncomlinesse;
That if this Reformation which we
Receiv'd, had not been buried with thee,
The Stage (as this work) might have liv'd and lov'd;
Her Lines; the austere Skarlet had approv'd,
And th' Actors wisely been from that offence
As cleare, as they are now from Audience.
Thus with thy Genius did the Scaene expire,
Wanting thy Active and inliv'ning fire,
That now (to spread a darknesse over all,)
Nothing remaines but Poesie to fall.
And though from these thy Embers we receive
Some warmth, so much as may be said, we live,
That we dare praise thee, blushlesse, in the head
Of the best piece Hermes to Love e're read,
That We rejoyce and glory in thy Wit,
And feast each other with remembring it,
That we dare speak thy thought, thy Acts recite:
Yet all men henceforth be afraid to write_.

RICH. LOVELACE.


On Master JOHN FLETCHERS

Dramaticall Poems.

_Great tutelary Spirit of the Stage_!
FLETCHER! _I can fix nothing but my rage
Before thy Workes, 'gainst their officious crime
Who print thee now, in the worst scaene of Time.
For me, uninterrupted hadst thou slept
Among the holly shades and close hadst kept
The mistery of thy lines, till men might bee
Taught how to reade, and then, how to reade thee.
But now thou art expos'd to th' common fate,
Revive then (mighty Soule!) and vindicate
From th' Ages rude affronts thy injured fame,
Instruct the Envious, with how chast a flame
Thou warmst the Lover; how severely just
Thou wert to punish, if he burnt to lust.
With what a blush thou didst the Maid adorne,
But tempted, with how innocent a scorne.
How Epidemick errors by thy_ Play
_Were laught out of esteeme, so purged away.
How to each sence thou so didst vertue fit,
That all grew vertuous to be thought t' have wit.
But this was much too narrow for thy art,
Thou didst frame governments, give Kings their part,
Teach them how neere to God, while just they be;
But how dissolved, stretcht forth to Tyrannie.
How Kingdomes, in their channell, safely run,
But rudely overflowing are undone.
Though vulgar spirits Poets scorne or hate;
Man may beget, A Poet can create_.

WILL. HABINGTON.


Upon Master FLETCHERS Dramaticall Workes.

_What? now the Stage is down, darst thou appeare
Bold_ FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear?
Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weight
You cast upon them, grow more strong & streight,
'Tis not _love's_ Thunderbolt, nor _Mars_ his Speare,
Or _Neptune's_ angry Trident, Poets fear.
_Had now grim_ BEN _bin breathing, 'with what rage,
And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age_,
SHAKESPEARE _with_ CHAPMAN _had grown madd, and torn
Their gentle_ Sock, _and lofty_ Buskins _worne,
To make their Muse welter up to the chin
In blood; of_ faigned _Scenes no need had bin_,
England _like_ Lucians _Eagle with an Arrow_
Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow,
Had bin a Theater and subject fit
To exercise in_ real _truth's their wit:
Tet none like high-wing'd_ FLETCHER _had bin found
This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound,
Rare_ FLETCHER'S _quill_ had soar'd up to the sky,
And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy:
Live famous Dramatist, let every _spring_
Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons _bring:
And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage,
Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page_.

JA. HOWELL. _P.C.C._


On the Edition.

Fletcher _(whose Fame no Age can ever wast;
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive againe; and with his Name
His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charme
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme,
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light.
He to a Sympathie those soules betrai'd
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
A reall passion by a Counterfeit:
When first_ Bellario _bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a teare?
And when_ Aspasia _wept, not any eye
But seem'd to weare the same sad livery;
By him inspired the feigned_ Lucina _drew
More streams of melting sorrow then the true;
But then the_ Scornfull Lady _did beguile
Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile.
Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey:
He Nature taught her passions to out-doe,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likenesse seem'd to beare,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept
In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claime,
Had not the dying sceane expired his Name;
Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcome by this_ Post-liminium.
_His losse preserved him; They that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived,
And Playes by Intermission longer liv'd_.

THO. STANLEY.


On the Edition of Mr _Francis Beaumonts_, and Mr _John Fletchers_ PLAYES
never printed before.

I Am _amaz'd_; and this same _Extacye_
Is both my _Glory_ and _Apology_.
_Sober Joyes are dull Passions_; they must beare
Proportion to the _Subject_: if _so_; where
_Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_ shall vouchsafe to be
_That Subject_; _That Joy_ must be _Extacye_.
_Fury_ is the _Complexion_ of _great Wits_;
The _Fooles Distemper_: Hee, thats _mad_ by _fits_,
Is _wise so_ too. It is the _Poets Muse_;
The _Prophets God_: the _Fooles_, and _my excuse_.
For (in _Me_) nothing lesse then _Fletchers Name_
Could have _begot_, or _justify'd_ this _flame_.
_Beaumont_ }
_Fletcher_     } _Return'd?_ methinks it should not be.
_No_, not in's _Works_: _Playes_ are as _dead_ as _He_.
The _Palate_ of _this age gusts_ nothing _High_;
That has not _Custard_ in't or _Bawdery_.
_Folly_ and _Madnesse_ fill the _Stage_: The _Scaene_
Is _Athens_; _where_, the _Guilty_, and the _Meane_,
The _Foole 'scapes_ well enough; _Learned_ and _Great_,
Suffer an _Ostracisme_; stand _Exulate_.

_Mankinde_ is _fall'n againe_, _shrunke_ a _degree_,
A _step_ below his very _Apostacye_.
_Nature_ her _Selfe_ is out of _Tune_; and _Sicke_
Of _Tumult_ and _Disorder_, _Lunatique_.
Yet _what World_ would not cheerfully _endure_
The _Torture_, or _Disease_, t' _enjoy_ the _Cure?_

_This Booke's_ the _Balsame_, and the _Hellebore_,
Must _preserve bleeding Nature_, and _restore_
Our _Crazy Stupor_ to a _just quick Sence_
Both of _Ingratitude_, and _Providence_.
That teaches us (at _Once_) to _feele_, and _know_,
_Two deep Points_: what we _want_, and what we _owe_.
Yet _Great Goods have their Ills_: Should we _transmit_
To _Future Times_, the _Pow'r_ of _Love_ and _Wit_,
In _this Example_: would they not _combine_
To make _Our Imperfections Their Designe?_
They'd _study_ our _Corruptions_; and take more
_Care_ to be _Ill_, then to be _Good_, _before_.
For _nothing but so great Infirmity,
Could make Them worthy of such Remedy.

Have you not scene the Suns almighty Ray
Rescue th' affrighted World_, and _redeeme Day_
From _blacke despaire_: how his _victorious Beame_
_Scatters_ the _Storme_, and _drownes_ the _petty flame_
Of _Lightning_, in the _glory_ of his _eye_:
How _full_ of _pow'r_, how _full_ of _Majesty?_
When to _us Mortals, nothing_ else was _knowne_,
But the _sad doubt_, whether to _burne_, or _drowne_.

_Choler_, and _Phlegme, Heat_, and _dull Ignorance,_
Have cast _the people_ into _such_ a _Trance_,
That _feares_ and _danger_ seeme _Great equally_,
And no _dispute_ left now, but _how_ to _dye_.
Just in _this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare_
Of all disorder and reformes us here.

The _formall Youth_, that knew _no_ other _Grace_,
Or _Value_, but his _Title_, and his _Lace_,
_Glasses himselfe_: and in _this faithfull Mirrour_,
_Views, disaproves, reformes, repents_ his _Errour_.

The _Credulous, bright Girle_, that _beleeves all_
_Language_, (in _Othes_) if _Good, Canonicall_,
Is _fortifi'd_, and _taught, here_, to _beware_
Of _ev'ry_ specious _bayte_, of _ev'ry snare_
Save _one_: and _that_ same _Caution_ takes her _more_,
Then _all_ the _flattery_ she _felt before_.
She finds her _Boxes_, and her _Thoughts betray'd_
By the _Corruption_ of the _Chambermaide_:
_Then throwes_ her _Washes_ and _dissemblings_ By;
And _Vowes_ nothing but _Ingenuity_.

The _severe States-man quits_ his _sullen forme_
Of _Gravity_ and _bus'nesse_; The _Luke-warme_
_Religious_ his _Neutrality_; The _hot_
_Braine-sicke Illuminate_ his _zeale; The Sot_
_Stupidity_; The _Souldier_ his _Arreares_;
The _Court_ its _Confidence_; The _Plebs_ their _feares_;
_Gallants_ their _Apishnesse_ and _Perjurie_,
_Women_ their _Pleasure_ and _Inconstancie_;
_Poets_ their _Wine_; the _Usurer_ his _Pelfe_;
The _World_ its _Vanity_; and _I_ my _Selfe_.

Roger L'Estrange.


COMMENDATORY

On the Dramatick Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

_Wonder! who's here?_ Fletcher, _long buried
Reviv'd? Tis he! hee's risen from the Dead.
His winding sheet put off, walks above ground,
Shakes off his Fetters, and is better bound.
And may he not, if rightly understood,
Prove Playes are lawfull? he hath_ made them Good.
_Is any_ Lover Mad? _see here_ Loves Cure;
_Unmarried? to a_ Wife _he may be sure
A rare one_, For a Moneth; _if she displease,
The_ Spanish Curate _gives a Writ of ease.
Enquire_ The Custome of the Country, _then
Shall_ the French Lawyer _set you free againe.
If the two_ Faire Maids _take it wondrous ill,
(One of_ the Inne, _the other of_ the Mill,)
_That th'_ Lovers Progresse _stopt, and they defam'd;
Here's that makes_ Women Pleas'd, _and_ Tamer tamd.
_But who then playes the_ Coxcombe, _or will trie
His_ Wit at severall Weapons, _or else die?_
Nice Valour _and he doubts not to engage
The_ Noble Gentl'man, _in_ Loves Pilgrimage,
_To take revenge on the_ False One, _and run
The_ Honest mans Fortune, _to be undone
Like_ Knight of Malta, _or else_ Captaine _be
Or th'_ Humerous Lieutenant: _goe to Sea_
(A Voyage _for to starve) hee's very loath,
Till we are all at peace, to sweare an Oath,
That then the_ Loyall Subject _may have leave
To lye from_ Beggers Bush, _and undeceive
The Creditor, discharge his debts; Why so,
Since we can't pay to_ Fletcher _what we owe.
Oh could his_ Prophetesse _but tell one_ Chance,
_When that the_ Pilgrimes _shall returne from France.
And once more make this Kingdome, as of late,
The_ Island Princesse, _and we celebrate
A_ Double Marriage; _every one to bring
To_ Fletchers _memory his offering.
That thus at last unsequesters the Stage,
Brings backe the Silver, and the Golden Age_.

Robert Gardiner.


To the _Manes_ of the celebrated Poets and Fellow-writers, _Francis
Beaumont_ and _John Fletcher_, upon the Printing of their excellent
Dramatick Poems.

_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.