The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes - Volume I | Page 7

Stage once rais'd to
Emperors and Kings?
Shall rigid forfeitures (that reach our Heires)

Of things that only fill with cares and feares?
Shall the privation of a
friendlesse life,
Made up of contradictions and strife?
Shall He be
entitie, would antedate
His own poore name, and thine annihilate?

Shall these be judgements great enough for one
That dares not write
thee an Encomion?

Then where am I? but now I've thought upon't,


I'le prayse thee more then all have ventur'd on't.
I'le take thy noble
Work (and like the trade
Where for a heap of Salt pure Gold is layd)

I'le lay thy Volume, that Huge Tome of wit,
About in Ladies
Closets, where they sit
Enthron'd in their own wills; and if she bee

A Laick sister, shee'l straight flie to thee:
But if a holy Habit shee
have on,
Or be some Novice, shee'l scarce looks upon
Thy Lines at
first; but watch Her then a while,
And you shall see Her steale a
gentle smile
Upon thy Title, put thee neerer yet,
Breath on thy
Lines a whisper, and then set
Her voyce up to the measures; then
begin
To blesse the houre, and happy state shee's in.
Now shee
layes by her Characters, and lookes
With a stern eye on all her pretty
Bookes.
Shee's now thy Voteresse, and the just Crowne
She brings
thee with it, is worth half the Towne.
I'le send thee to the Army, they
that fight
Will read thy tragedies with some delight,
Be all thy
Reformadoes, fancy scars,
And pay too, in thy speculative wars.
I'le
send thy Comick scenes to some of those
That for a great while have
plaid fast and loose;
New universalists, by changing shapes,
Have
made with wit and fortune faire escapes.
Then shall the Countrie that
poor Tennis-ball
Of angry fate, receive thy Pastorall,
And from it
learn those melancholy straines
Fed the afflicted soules of Primitive
swaines.
Thus the whole World to reverence will flock
Thy Tragick
Buskin and thy Comick Stock;
And winged fame unto posterity

Transmit but onely two, this Age, and Thee._

THOMAS PEYTON.
_Agricola
Anglo-Cantianus._
VERSES
ON THE
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