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 scæne 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 be thought t' have wit.
But this was much too narrow for thy art,
Thou didst frame governments, give Kings their part,
Teach them how neere to God, while just they be;
But how dissolved, stretcht forth to Tyrannie.
How Kingdomes, in their channell, safely run,
But rudely overflowing are undone.
Though vulgar spirits Poets scorne or hate;
Man may beget, A Poet can create.
WILL. HABINGTON.
Upon Master FLETCHERS Dramaticall Workes.
What? now the Stage is down, darst thou appeare
Bold FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear?
Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weight
You cast upon them, grow more strong & streight,
'Tis not love's Thunderbolt, nor Mars his Speare,
Or Neptune's angry Trident, Poets fear.
Had now grim BEN bin breathing, 'with what rage,
And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age,
SHAKESPEARE with CHAPMAN had grown madd, and torn
Their gentle Sock, and lofty Buskins worne,
To make their Muse welter up to the chin
In blood; of faigned Scenes no need had bin,
England like Lucians Eagle with an Arrow
Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow,
Had bin a Theater and subject fit
To exercise in_ real truth's their wit:
Tet none like high-wing'd FLETCHER had bin found
This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound,
Rare FLETCHER'S quill had soar'd up to the sky,
And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy:
Live famous Dramatist, let every spring
Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons bring:
And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage,
Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page.
JA. HOWELL. P.C.C.
On the Edition.
Fletcher (whose Fame no Age can ever wast;
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive againe; and with his Name
His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charme
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme,
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light.
He to a Sympathie those soules betrai'd
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
A reall passion by a Counterfeit:
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a teare?
And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
But seem'd to weare the same sad livery;
By him inspired the feigned Lucina drew
More streams of melting sorrow then the true;
But then the Scornfull Lady did beguile
Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile.
Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey:
He Nature taught her passions to out-doe,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likenesse seem'd to beare,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept
In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claime,
Had not the dying sceane expired his Name;
Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcome by this Post-liminium.
His losse preserved him; They that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived,
And Playes by Intermission longer liv'd.
THO. STANLEY.
On the Edition of Mr Francis Beaumonts, and Mr John Fletchers PLAYES never printed before.