On the Dramatick Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.
Wonder! who's here? Fletcher, long buried
Reviv'd? Tis he! hee's risen from the Dead.
His winding sheet put off, walks above ground,
Shakes off his Fetters, and is better bound.
And may he not, if rightly understood,
Prove Playes are lawfull? he hath made them Good.
Is any Lover Mad? see here Loves Cure;
Unmarried? to a Wife he may be sure
A rare one, For a Moneth; if she displease,
The Spanish Curate gives a Writ of ease.
Enquire The Custome of the Country, then
Shall the French Lawyer set you free againe.
If the two Faire Maids take it wondrous ill,
(One of the Inne, the other of the Mill,)
That th' Lovers Progresse stopt, and they defam'd;
Here's that makes Women Pleas'd, and Tamer tamd.
But who then playes the Coxcombe, or will trie
His Wit at severall Weapons, or else die?
Nice Valour and he doubts not to engage
The Noble Gentl'man, in Loves Pilgrimage,
To take revenge on the False One, and run
The Honest mans Fortune, to be undone
Like Knight of Malta, or else Captaine be
Or th' Humerous Lieutenant: goe to Sea
(A Voyage for to starve) hee's very loath,
Till we are all at peace, to sweare an Oath,
That then the Loyall Subject may have leave
To lye from Beggers Bush, and undeceive
The Creditor, discharge his debts; Why so,
Since we can't pay to Fletcher what we owe.
Oh could his Prophetesse but tell one Chance,
When that the Pilgrimes shall returne from France.
And once more make this Kingdome, as of late,
The Island Princesse, and we celebrate
A Double Marriage; every one to bring
To Fletchers memory his offering.
That thus at last unsequesters the Stage,
Brings backe the Silver, and the Golden Age.
Robert Gardiner.
To the Manes of the celebrated Poets and Fellow-writers, Francis
Beaumont and John Fletcher, upon the Printing of their excellent
Dramatick Poems.
Disdaine not Gentle Shades, the lowly praise
Which here I tender your immortall Bayes.
Call it not folly, but my zeale, that I
Strive to eternize you that cannot dye.
And though no Language rightly can commend
What you have writ, save what your selves have penn'd;
Yet let me wonder at those curious straines
(The rich Conceptions of your twin-like Braines)
Which drew the Gods attention; who admir'd
To see our English Stage by you inspir'd.
Whose chiming Muses never fail'd to sing
A Soule-affecting Musicke; ravishing
Both Eare and Intellect, while you do each
Contend with other who shall highest reach
In rare Invention; Conflicts that beget
New strange delight, to see two Fancies met,
That could receive no foile: two wits in growth
So just, as had one Soule informed both.
Thence (Learned Fletcher) sung the muse alone,
As both had done before, thy Beaumont gone.
In whom, as thou, had he outlived, so he
(Snatch'd first away) survived still in thee.
What though distempers of the present Age
Have banish'd your smooth numbers from the Stage?
You shall be gainers by't; it shall confer
To th' making the vast world your Theater.
The Presse shall give to ev'ry man his part,
And we will all be Actors; learne by heart
Those Tragick Scenes and Comicke Straines you writ,
Un-imitable both for Art and Wit;
And at each Exit, as your Fancies rise,
Our hands shall clap deserved Plaudities.
John Web.
To the desert of the Author in his most Ingenious Pieces.
Thou art above their Censure, whose darke Spirits
Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits;
That have no soule, nor reason to their will,
But rime as ragged, as a Ganders Quill:
Where Pride blowes up the Error, and transfers
Their zeale in Tempests, that so wid'ly errs.
Like heat and Ayre comprest, their blind desires
Mixe with their ends, as raging winds with fires.
Whose Ignorance and Passions, weare an eye
Squint to all parts of true Humanity.
All is Apocripha suits not their vaine:
For wit, oh fye! and Learning too; prophane!
But Fletcher hath done Miracles by wit,
And one Line of his may convert them yet.
Tempt them into the State of knowledge, and
Happinesse to read and understand.
The way is strow'd with Lawrell, and ev'ry Muse
Brings Incense to our Fletcher: whose Scenes infuse
Such noble kindlings from her pregnant fire,
As charmes her Criticke Poets in desire,
And who doth read him, that parts lesse indu'd,
Then with some heat of wit or Gratitude.
Some crowd to touch the Relique of his Bayes,
Some to cry up their owne wit in his praise,
And thinke they engage it by Comparatives,
When from himselfe, himselfe he best derives.
Let Shakespeare, Chapman, and applauded Ben,
Weare the Eternall merit of their Pen,
Here I am love-sicke: and were I to chuse,
A Mistris corrivall 'tis Fletcher's Muse.
George Buck.
On Mr BEAUMONT.