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

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 Scænes 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_ Cæsar'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