The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes - Volume I | Page 9

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_ H?resie _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 ?ternall 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_ At?ius _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 Sc?ne 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 sc?ne 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