BEN: JOHNSON.
Upon Master FLETCHERS Incomparable Playes.
Apollo sings, his harpe resounds; give roome,
For now behold the golden Pompe is come,
Thy Pompe of Playes which thousands come to see,
With admiration both of them and thee,
O Volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover
To be with juice of Cedar washt all over;
Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent,
To raise an Act to full astonishment;
Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoone, and Maides to dye for love.
Love lyes a bleeding here, Evadne there
Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where,
Here's a mad lover, there that high designe
Of King and no King (and the rare Plot thine)
So that when 'ere wee circumvolve our Eyes,
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varietyes,
Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see
None writes lov's passion in the world, like Thee.
ROB. HERRICK.
On the happy Collection of Master FLETCHER'S Works, never before
PRINTED.
FLETCHER arise, Usurpers share thy Bayes,
They Canton thy vast Wit to build small Playes:
He comes! his Volume breaks through clowds and dust,
Downe, little Witts, Ye must refund, Ye must.
Nor comes he private, here's great BEAUMONT too,
How could one single World encompasse Two?
For these Co-heirs had equall power to teach
All that all Witts both can and cannot reach.
Shakespear was early up, and went so drest
As for those dawning houres he knew was best;
But when the Sun shone forth, You Two thought fit
To weare just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.
Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must looke for New,
Manners and Scenes may alter, but not You;
For Yours are not meere Humours, gilded straines;
The Fashion lost, Your massy Sense remaines.
Some thinke Your Witts of two Complexions fram'd,
That One the Sock, th'Other the Buskin claim'd;
That should the Stage embattaile all it's Force,
FLETCHER would lead the Foot, BEAUMONT the Horse.
But, you were Both for Both; not Semi-witts,
Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:
Y'are not Two Faculties (and one Soule still)
But th' Understanding, Thou the quick free Will;
But, as two Voyces in one Song embrace,
(FLETCHER'S keen Trebble, and deep BEAUMONTS Base)
Two, full, Congeniall Soules; still Both prevail'd;
His Muse and Thine were Quarter'd not Impal'd:
_Both brought Your Ingots, Both toil'd at the Mint,
Beat, melted, sifted, till no drosse stuck in't,
Then in each Others scales weighed every graine,
Then smooth'd and burnish'd, then weigh'd all againe,
Stampt Both your Names upon't by one bold Hit,
Then, then'twas Coyne, as well as Bullion-Wit.
Thus Twinns: But as when Fate one Eye deprives,
That other strives to double which survives:
So_ BEAUMONT dy'd: yet left in Legacy
His Rules and Standard-wit (FLETCHER) to Thee.
Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon,
A Two-horn'd Crescent then, now one Full-moon.
Joynt Love before, now Honour doth provoke;
So th' old Twin-Giants forcing a huge Oake
One slipp'd his footing, th' Other sees him fall,
Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all.
Imperiall FLETCHER! here begins thy Raigne,
Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain;
Thy swift dispatching Soule no more doth stay
Then He that built two Citties in one day;
Ever brim full, and sometimes running o're
To feede poore languid Witts that waite at doore,
Who creep and creep, yet ne're above-ground stood,
(For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood)
But thou art still that Bird of Paradise
Which hath no feet and ever nobly flies:
Rich, lusty Sence, such as the Poet ought,
For Poems if not Excellent, are Naught;
Low wit in Scenes? in state a Peasant goes;
If meane and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose,
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,
To whom He that writes Wit, shews he hath none.
Brave Shakespeare flow'd, yet had his Ebbings too,
Often above Himselfe, sometimes below;
Thou Alwayes Best; if ought seem'd to decline,
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine:
Thus thy faire SHEPHEARDESSE, which the bold Heape
(False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,
Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd,
At wont 'twas worth two hundred thousand pound.
Some blast thy Works lest we should track their Walke
Where they steale all those few good things they talke;
Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,
For Plundered folkes ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth)
Thy strong Sence pall's when they purloine it forth.
When did'st Thou borrow? wkere's the man e're read
Ought begged by Thee from those Alive or Dead?
Or from dry Goddesses, as some who when
They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.
Thou was't thine owne Muse, and hadst such vast odds
Thou out-writ'st him whose verse made all those Godds:
Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,
As much as Greeks or Latines thee in yeares:
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms,
We ebbe downe dry to pebble-Anagrams;
Dead and insipid, all despairing sit
Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit:
What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)
Till Johnson made good Poets and right Verse.
Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke,
Save when she'd show how scurvily they looke;
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;
Thy Nerves have Beauty, which Invades and Charms;
Lookes like a Princesse harness'd in bright Armes.
Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;
Tearing themselves, and almost split their braine
To render harsh what thou speak'st free and cleane;
Such gloomy Sense may pass for High and Proud,
But true-born Wit still flies above the Cloud;
Thou knewst 'twas Impotence what they call Height;
Who blusters strong i'th Darke, but creeps i'th Light.
And as thy thoughts were cleare, so, Innocent;
Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;
Slaunderst not Lawes, prophan'st no holy Page,
(As if thy Fathers Crosier aw'd the Stage;)
High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
To prosper out foure Acts, were plagu'd i'th Fift:
All's safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,
Nor swoln, nor flat, a True Full Naturall veyne;
Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skinn'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor City-startcht and pinn'd.
Thou hadst no Sloath, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
But Strength and Mirth, FLETCHER'S a Sanguin Wit.
Thus, two great Consul-Poets all things swayd,
Till all was English Borne or English Made:
Miter and Coyfe here into One Piece spun,
BEAUMONT a Judge's, This a Prelat's sonne.
What Strange Production is at last displaid,
(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aide)
Behold, two Masculines espous'd each other,
Wit and the World were born without a Mother.
J. BERKENHEAD.
To the memorie of Master FLETCHER.
There's nothing gained by being witty: Fame
Gathers but winde to blather up a name.
Orpheus must leave his lyre, or if it be
In heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony,
And stones, that follow'd him, may now become
Now stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb.
The Theban Linus, that was ably skil'd
In Muse and Musicke, was by Phoebus kill'd,
Though Phoebus did beget him: sure his Art
Had merited his balsame, not his dart.
But here Apollo's jealousie is seene,
The god of Physicks troubled with the spleene;
Like timerous Kings he puts a period
To high grown parts lest he should be no God.
Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gave
Life to the world, could not avoid a grave.
Hence the inspired Prophets of old Rome
Too great for earth fled to Elizium.
But the same Ostracisme benighted one,
To whom all these were but illusion;
It tooke our FLETCHER hence, Fletcher, whose wit
Was not an accident to th' soule, but It;
Onely diffused. (Thus wee the same Sun call,
Moving it'h Sphære, and shining on a wall.)
Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climbe,
Wit, that ne're grew, but only show'd by time.
No fier-worke of sacke, no seldome show'n
Poeticke rage, but still in motion:
And with far more then Sphericke excellence
It mov'd, for 'twas its owns Intelligence.
And yet so obvious to sense, so plaine,
You'd scarcely thinke't allyd unto the braine:
So sweete, it gained more ground upon the Stage
Then Johnson with his selfe-admiring rage
Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell,
That fooles would think, that they could doe as well.
This is our losse: yet spight of Phoebus, we
Will keepe our FLETCHER, for his wit is He.