The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes - Volume I | Page 8

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 Sc?nes 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_ C?sar'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