Upon the unparalelld Playes written by those Renowned Twinnes of Poetry
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.
What's here? another Library of prayse,
Met in a Troupe t'advance contemned Playes
And bring exploded Witt againe in fashion?
I can't but wonder at this Reformation,
My skipping soule surfets with so much good,
To see my hopes into fruition budd.
A happy Chimistry! blest viper, joy!
That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way!
Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect
In spight of Ignorance the Architect
Of Occidentall Poesye; and turne
Godds, to recall witts ashes from their urne.
Like huge Collosses they've together mett
Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt.
The tale of Atlas (though of truth it misse)
We plainely read Mythologiz'd in this;
Orpheus and Amphion whose undying stories
Made Athens famous, are but Allegories.
Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilize
Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees,
I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall)
That witt is past its Climactericall;
And though the Muses have beene dead and gone
I know they'll finde a Resurrection.
Tis vaine to prayse; they're to themselves a glory,
And silence is our sweetest Oratory.
For he that names but FLETCHER must needs be
Found guilty of a loud hyperbole.
His fancy so transcendently aspires,
He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires.
Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,
The very Anagrams of Eloquence,
Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,
Being rightly spelld, but Witts Stenographie.
Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,
Only cesura'd to spin out the time.
But heer's a Magazine of purest sence
Cloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence.
Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veines
Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines.
Lines like their Authours, and each word of it
Does say twas writ b' a Gemini of Witt.
How happie is our age! how blest our men!
When such rare soules live themselves o're agen.
We erre, that thinke a Poet dyes; for this,
Shewes that tis but a Metempsychosis.
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER here at last we see
Above the reach of dull mortalitie,
Or pow'r of fate: thus the proverbe hitts
(Thats so much crost) These men live by their witts.
ALEX. BROME.
On the Death and workes of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.
My name, so far from great, that tis not knowne,
Can lend no praise but what thou'dst blush to own;
And no rude hand, or feeble wit should dare
To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned teare.
I'de have a State of Wit convoked, which hath
A power to take up on common Faith;
That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome's spent
In but preparative to thy Monument,
The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayes
To get new contribution to thy prayse,
And reare it high, and equall to thy Wit
Which must give life and Monument to it.
So when late ESSEX dy'd, the Publicke face
Wore sorrow in't, and to add mournefull Grace
To the sad pomp of his lamented fall,
The Common wealth served at his Funerall
And by a Solemne Order built his Hearse.
But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse,
Where thy advanced Image safely stands
Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands.
Base hands how impotently you disclose
Your rage 'gainst Camdens learned ashes, whose
Defaced Statua and Martyrd booke,
Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke.
Nonnulla desunt's legibly appeare,
So truly now Camdens Remaines lye there.
Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath
Of fame shall speake his great Elizabeth!
'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath,
Brittannia is the Tombe and Epitaph.
Thus Princes honours: but Witt only gives
A name which to succeeding ages lives.
Singly we now consult our selves and fame,
Ambitious to twist ours with thy great name.
Hence we thus bold to praise. For as a Vine
With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine
A friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots
And gathers growth and moysture from its roots;
About its armes the thankfull clusters cling
Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling
The blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haire
Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.
So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe
Borrow support and strength and lend but show.
And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun
Strongly begets upon our passion.
Making our sorrow teeme with Elegie,
Thou yet unwep'd, and yet unprais'd might'st be.
But th' are imperfect births; and such are all
Produc'd by causes not univocall,
The scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit,
And hence our verse speakes only Mother wit.
Oh for a fit o'th Father! for a Spirit
That might but parcell of thy worth inherit;
For but a sparke of that diviner fire
Which thy full breast did animate and inspire;
That Soules could be divided, thou traduce
But a small particle of thine to us!
Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sit
But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit;
When it had plummets hung on to suppresse
It's too luxuriant growing mightinesse:
Till as that tree which scornes to bee kept downe,
Thou grewst to govern the whole Stage alone.
In which orbe thy throng'd light did make the star,
Thou wert th' Intelligence did move that Sphere.
Thy Fury was composed; Rapture no fit
That hung on thee; nor thou far gone in witt
As men in a disease; thy Phansie cleare,
Muse chast, as those frames whence they tooke their fire;
No spurious composures amongst thine
Got in adultery 'twixt Witt and Wine.
And as th' Hermeticall Physitians draw
From things that curse of the first-broken Law,
That Ens Venenum, which extracted thence
Leaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence:
So was thy Spirit calcined; no Mixtures there
But perfect, such as next to Simples are.
Not like those Meteor-wits which wildly flye
In storme and thunder through th' amazed skie;
Speaking but th'Ills and Villanies in a State,
Which fooles admire, and wise men tremble at,
Full of portent and prodigie, whose Gall
Oft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall.
Nature us'd all her skill, when thee she meant
A Wit at once both Great and Innocent.
Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy judgement, not
For mending one word, a whole sheet to blot.
Thou couldst anatomize with ready art
And skilfull hand crimes lockt close up i'th heart.
Thou couldst unfold darke Plots, and shew that path
By which Ambition climbed to Greatnesse hath.
Thou couldst the rises, turnes, and falls of States,
How neare they were their Periods and Dates;
Couldst mad the Subject into popular rage,
And the grown seas of that great storme asswage,
Dethrone usurping Tyrants, and place there
The lawfull Prince and true Inheriter;
Knewst all darke turnings in the Labyrinth
Of policie, which who but knowes he sinn'th,
Save thee, who un-infected didst walke in't
As the great Genius of Government.
And when thou laidst thy tragicke buskin by
To Court the Stage with gentle Comedie,
How new, how proper th' humours, how express'd
In rich variety, how neatly dress'd
In language, how rare Plots, what strength of Wit
Shin'd in the face and every limb of it!
The Stage grew narrow while thou grewst to be
In thy whole life an Exc'llent Comedie.
To these a Virgin-modesty which first met
Applause with blush and feare, as if he yet
Had not deserv'd; till bold with constant praise
His browes admitted the unsought for Bayes.
Nor would he ravish fame; but left men free
To their owne Vote and Ingenuity.
When His faire Shepherdesse _on the guilty Stage,
Was martir'd betweene Ignorance and Rage;
At which the impatient Vertues of those few
Could judge, grew high, cri'd Murther; though he knew
The innocence and beauty of his Childe,
Hee only, as if unconcerned, smil'd.
Princes have gather'd since each scattered grace,
Each line and beauty of that injur'd face;
And on th'united parts breath'd such a fire
As spight of Malice she shall ne're expire.
Attending, not affecting, thus the crowne
Till every hand did help to set it on,
Hee came to be sole Monarch, and did raign
In Wits great Empire, absolute Soveraign.
JOHN HARRIS.
On MR. JOHN FLETC[H]ER's ever to be admired Dramaticall Works.
I've thought upon't; and thus I may gaine bayes,
I will commend thee Fletcher, and thy Playes.
But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
And passe it'h Croud amongst them for a Wit.
Apollo knows me not, nor I the Nine,
All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine.
By your leave Gentlemen. You Wits o'th' age,
You that both furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage.
You who the Poet and the Actors fright,
Least that your Censure thin the second night:
Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
There ere was solæcisme in FLETCHERS Inke?
Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?
A happinesse not still alow'd to Ben!
After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost
He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste.
Inspired, FLETCHER! here's no vaine-glorious words:
How ev'n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords.
Thy Language so insinuates, each one
Of thy spectators has thy passion.
Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove:
Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love:
Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Ladies can't say
Though Stephen miscarri'd that so did the play:
Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
That Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene:
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
Stuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to intice,
How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded,
And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?
Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit,
Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit.
And many a she that to he tane up came,
Tooke up themselves, and after left the game.
HENRY HARINGTON.
To the memory of the deceased but ever-living Authour in these his Poems, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.