On the large train of Fletchers friends let me
(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)
Become a Waiter in my ragged verse,
As Follower to the Muses Followers.
Many here are of Noble ranke and worth,
That have, by strength of Art, set Fletcher forth
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,
And had the best abilities to draw him;
Many more are abroad, that write, and looke
To have their lines set before Fletchers Booke;
Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse;
Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse,
And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint
To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
You, that are here before me Gentlemen,
And Princes of Parnassus by the Penne
And your just Judgements of his worth, that have
Preserved this Authours mem'ry from the Grave,
And made it glorious; let me, at your gate,
Porter it here, 'gainst those that come too late,
And are unfit to enter. Something I
Will deserve here: For where you versifie
In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,
I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.
I am admitted. Now, have at the Rowt
Of those that would crowd in, but must keepe out.
Beare back, my Masters; Pray keepe backe; Forbeare:
You cannot, at this time, have entrance here.
You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,
Finde entertainment at the next Impression.
But let none then attempt it, that not know
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:
All such must be excluded; and the sort,
That onely upon trust, or by report
Have taken Fletcher up, and thinke it trim
To have their Verses planted before Him:
Let them read first his Works, and learne to know him,
And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.
But farre from hence be such, as would proclaim
Their knowledge of this Authour, not his Fame;
And such, as would pretend, of all the rest,
To be the best Wits that have known him best.
Depart hence all such Writers, and, before
Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
As formerly, before Tom Coryate,
Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
To perish: For the Witty Coppies tooke
Of his Encomiums made themselves a Booke.
Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,
Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too
In other Spheres:) For Fletchers flourishing Bayes
Must never fade while Phoebus weares his Rayes.
Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.
Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?
Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?
And stil'd (at best) the Muses Serving-creature?
Doe you comptroll? Y'have had your Jere: Sirs, no;
But, in an humble manner, let you know
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T' informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,
What they inherit; and how well their Dads
Left one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.
And from departed Poets I can guesse
Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.
'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile,
And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle,
Till with his Swingle he his Noddle breake;
While this of Fletcher and his Works I speake:
His Works (says Momus) nay, his Plays you'd say:
Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play
Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines
Upon the Stage; and shall to th' Stationers gaines
Life after life take, till some After-age
Shall put down Printing, as this doth the Stage;
Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,
But in Dumb-shews her own sad Tragedy.
'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,
Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood.
But to the Man againe, of whom we write,
The Writer that made Writing his Delight,
Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,
To beget Wit, or manage it: nor trudge
To Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, know
The common talke that from his Lips did flow,
And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,
Then any of his time, or since have writ,
(But few excepted) in the Stages way:
His Scenes were Acts, and every Act a Play.
I knew him in his strength; even then, when He
That was the Master of his Art and Me
Most knowing Johnson (proud to call him Sonne)
In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done
His very Selfe. I knew him till he dyed;
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
Of sorrow overwhelm'd the Stage; which gave
Volleys of sighes to send him to his grave.
And grew distracted in most violent Fits
(For She had lost the best part of her Wits.)
In the first yeere, our famous Fletcher fell,
Of good King Charles who graced these Poems well,
Being then in life of Action: But they dyed
Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
As is their Poët. Now at the Report
Of the Kings second comming to his Court,
The Bookes creepe from the Presse to Life, not Action,
Crying unto the World, that no protraction
May hinder Sacred Majesty to give
Fletcher, in them, leave on the Stage to live.
Others may more in lofty Verses move;
I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love.
RIC. BROME.
Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN FLETCHERS workes.
What meanes this numerous Guard? or do we come
To file our Names or Verse upon the Tombe
Of Fletcher, and by boldly making knowne
His Wit, betray the Nothing of our Owne?
For if we grant him dead, it is as true
Against our selves, No Wit, no Poet now;
Or if he be returnd from his coole shade,
To us, this Booke his Resurrection's made,
We bleed our selves to death, and but contrive
By our owne Epitaphs to shew him alive.
But let him live and let me prophesie,
As I goe Swan-like out, Our Peace is nigh;
A Balme unto the wounded Age I sing.
And nothing now is wanting but the King.
JA. SHIRLEY.
THE STATIONER.
As after th' Epilogue there comes some one
To tell Spectators what shall next be shown;
So here, am I; but though I've toyld and vext,
'Cannot devise what to present 'ye next;
For, since ye saw no Playes this Cloudy weather,
Here we have brought Ye our whole Stock together.
'Tis new and all these Gentlemen attest
Under their hands 'tis Right, and of the Best;
Thirty foure Witnesses (without my taske)
Y'have just so many Playes (besides a Maske)
All good (I'me told) as have been Read or Playd,
If this Booke faile, tis time to quit the Trade.
H. MOSELEY.
POST[S]CRIPT.
We forgot to tell the Reader, that some Prologues and Epilogues (here inserted) were not written by the Authours of this Volume; but made by others on the Revivall of severall Playes. After the Comedies and Tragedies were wrought off, we were forced (for expedition) to send the Gentlemens Verses to severall Printers, which was the occasion of their different Character; but the Worke it selfe is one continued Letter, which (though very legible) is none of the biggest, because (as much as possible) we would lessen the Bulke of the Volume.