EDW. POWELL.
Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His PLAYES.
What's all this preparation for? or why
Such suddain Triumphs? FLETCHER the people cry!
Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits run
Claret, as here the spouts flow Helicon;
See, every sprightfull Muse dressed trim and gay
Strews hearts and scatters roses in his way.
Thus th'outward yard set round with bayes w'have seene,
Which from the garden hath transplanted been:
Thus, at the Prætor's feast, with needlesse costs
Some must b'employd in painting of the posts:
And some as dishes made for sight, not taste,
Stand here as things for shew to FLETCHERS feast.
Oh what an honour! what a Grace 'thad beene
T'have had his Cooke in Rollo serv'd them in!
FLETCHER the King of Poets! such was he,
That earned all tribute, claimed all soveraignty;
And may he that denye's it, learn to blush
At's loyall Subject, starve at's Beggars bush:
And if not drawn by example, shame, nor Grace,
Turne o've to's Coxcomb, and the Wild-goose Chase.
Monarch of Wit! great Magazine of wealth!
From whose rich Banke, by a Promethean-stealth,
Our lesser flames doe blaze! His the true fire,
When they like Glo-worms, being touch'd, expire,
'Twas first beleev'd, because he alwayes was,
The Ipse dixit, and Pythagoras
To our Disciple-wits; His soule might run
(By the same-dream't-of Transmigration)
Into their rude and indigested braine,
And so informe their Chaos-lump againe;
For many specious brats of this last age
Spoke FLETCHER _perfectly in every Page.
This rowz'd his Rage to be abused thus:
Made'_s Lover mad, Lieutenant humerous.
Thus Ends of Gold and Silver-men are made
(As th'use to say) Goldsmiths of his owne trade;
Thus Rag-men from the dung-hill often hop,
And publish forth by chance a Brokers shop:
But by his owne light, now, we have descri'd
The drosse, from that hath beene so purely tri'd.
Proteus _of witt! who reads him doth not see
The manners of each sex of each degree!
His full stor'd fancy doth all humours fill
From th'_Queen of Corinth to the maid o'th mill;
His Curate, Lawyer, Captain, Prophetesse
Shew he was all and every one of these;
Hee taught (so subtly were their fancies seized)
To Rule a Wife, and yet the Women pleas'd.
Parnassus _is thine owne, Claime't as merit,
Law makes the Elder Brother to inherit.
G. Hills._
IN HONOUR OF Mr John Fletcher.
So FLETCHER now presents to fame
His alone selfe and unpropt name,
As Rivers Rivers entertaine,
But still fall single into th'maine,
So doth the Moone in Consort shine
Yet flowes alone into its mine,
And though her light be joyntly throwne,
When she makes silver tis her owne:
Perhaps his quill flew stronger, when
Twas weaved with his Beaumont's pen;
And might with deeper wonder hit,
It could not shew more his, more wit;
So Hercules came by sexe and Love,
When Pallas sprang from single Jove;
He tooke his BEAUMONT _for Embrace,
Not to grow by him, and increase,
Nor for support did with him twine,
He was his friends friend, not his vine.
His witt with witt he did not twist
To be Assisted, but t' Assist.
And who could succour him, whose quill
Did both Run sense and sense Distill?
Had Time and Art in't, and the while
Slid even as theirs wh'are only style,
Whether his chance did cast it so
Or that it did like Rivers flow
Because it must, or whether twere
A smoothnesse from his file and care,
Not the most strict enquiring nayle
Cou'd e're finde where his piece did faile
Of entyre onenesse; so the frame,
Was Composition, yet the same.
How does he breede his Brother! and
Make wealth and estate understand?
Sutes Land to wit, makes Lucke match merit,
And makes an Eldest fitly inherit:
How was he Ben, when Ben did write
Toth' stage, not to his judge endite?
How did he doe what Johnson did.
And Earne what Johnson wou'd have s'ed?
Jos. Howe of Trin. Coll. Oxon.
Master John Fletcher his dramaticall
Workes now at last printed.
I Could prayse Heywood now: or tell how long,
Falstaffe from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:
But for a Fletcher, I must take an Age,
And scarce invent the Title for one Page.
Gods must create new Spheres, that should expresse
The sev'rall Accents, Fletcher, of thy Dresse:
The Penne of Fates should only write thy Praise:
And all Elizium for thee turne to Bayes.
Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they.
Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play,
And search the Ephemerides to finde,
When the Aspect for Poets will be kinde.
Thy Poems (sacred Spring) did from thee flow,
With as much pleasure, as we reads them now.
Nor neede we only take them up by fits,
When love or Physicke hath diseased our Wits;
Or constr'e English to untye a knot.
Hid in a line, farre subtler then the Plot.
With Thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes,
And yet with thee the serious Student Rise:
The Eye at sev'rall angles darting rayes,
Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Playes
To ev'ry understanding still appeare,
As if thou only meant'st to take that Eare;
The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,
Where ev'ry word ha's weight and yet no Noise,
The matter too so nobly fit, no lesse
Then such as onely could deserve thy Dresse:
Witnesse thy Comedies, Pieces of such worth,
All Ages shall still like, but ne're bring forth.
Other in season last scarce so long time,
As cost the Poet but to make the Rime:
Where, if a Lord a new way do's but spit,
Or change his shrugge this antiquates the Wit.
That thou didst live before, nothing would tell
Posterity, could they but write so well.
Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance finde,
Not whilst an humours living, but Man-kinde.
Thou, like thy Writings, Innocent and Cleane,
Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scæne,
None of thy Inke had gall, and Ladies can,
Securely heare thee sport without a Fanne.
But when Thy Tragicke Muse would please to rise
In Majestie, and call Tribute from our Eyes;
Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so,
Who only came to see, turned Actors too.
How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feele
The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele!
Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knows
When the Spectators ran to save the blow?
Frozen with griefe we could not stir away
Untill the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.
What shall I doe? all Commendations end,
In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?
Give me thy spirit quickely, for I swell,
And like a raveing Prophetesse cannot tell
How to receive thy Genius in my breast:
Oh! I must sleepe, and then I'le sing the rest.
T. Palmer of Ch. Ch. Oxon.