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.