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 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 Hæresie 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 Æternall 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 Atëius 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 Scæne 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