Part 2

_Me thought our_ Fletcher _weary of this croud, Wherein so few have witt, yet all are loud, Unto Elyzium fled, where he alone Might his own witt admire and ours bemoane; But soone upon those Flowry Bankes, a throng Worthy of those even numbers which he sung, Appeared, and though those Ancient Laureates strive When dead themselves, whose raptures should survive, For his Temples all their owne bayes allowes, Not sham'd to see him crown'd with naked browes_; Homer _his beautifull_ Achilles _nam'd, Urging his braine with_ Joves _might well be fam'd, Since it brought forth one full of beauties charmes, As was his Pallas, and as bold in Armes; [-King and no King.-] But when he the brave_ Arbases _saw, one That saved his peoples dangers by his own, And saw_ Tigranes _by his hand undon Without the helpe of any_ Mirmydon, _He then confess'd when next hee'd Hector slay, That he must borrow him from Fletchers Play; This might have beene the shame, for which he bid His_ Iliades _in a Nut-shell should be hid_: Virgill _of his_ Æneas _next begun, Whose God-like forme and tongue so soone had wonne; That Queene of_ Carthage _and of beauty too, Two powers the whole world else were slaves unto, Urging that Prince for to repaire his faulte On earth, boldly in hell his Mistresse sought; [-The Maides Tragedy.-] But when he_ Amintor _saw revenge that wrong, For which the sad_ Aspasia _sigh'd so long, Upon himselfe, to shades hasting away, Not for to make a visit but to stay; He then did modestly confesse how farr_ Fletcher _out-did him in a Charactar. Now lastly for a refuge_, Virgill _shewes The lines where_ Corydon Alexis _woes; But those in opposition quickly met [-The faithfull Shepherdesse.-] The smooth tongu'd_ Perigot _and_ Amoret: _A paire whom doubtlesse had the others seene, They from their owne loves had_ Apostates _beene; Thus_ Fletcher _did the fam'd laureat exceed, Both when his Trumpet sounded and his reed; Now if the Ancients yeeld that heretofore, None worthyer then those ere Laurell wore; The least our age can say now thou art gon, Is that there never will be such a one: And since t' expresse thy worth, our rimes too narrow be, To help it wee'l be ample in our prophesie_.

H. HOWARD.

On Mr John Fletcher, and his Workes, never before published.

_To flatter living fooles is easie slight: But hard, to do the living-dead men right. To praise a Landed Lord, is gainfull art: But thanklesse to pay Tribute to desert. This should have been my taske: I had intent To bring my rubbish to thy monument, To stop some crannies there, but that I found No need of least repaire; all firme and sound. Thy well-built fame doth still it selfe advance Above the Worlds mad zeale and ignorance, Though thou dyedst not possest of that same pelfe (Which Nobler soules call durt,) the City wealth: Yet thou hast left unto the times so great A Legacy, a Treasure so compleat, That 'twill be hard I feare to prove thy Will: Men will be wrangling, and in doubting still How so vast summes of wit were left behind, And yet nor debts nor sharers they can finde. 'Twas the kind providence of fate, to lock Some of this Treasure up; and keep a stock For a reserve untill these sullen daies: When scorn, and want, and danger, are the Baies That Crown the head of merit. But now he Who in thy Will hath part, is rich and free. But there's a Caveat enter'd by command, None should pretend, but those can understand._

HENRY MODY, Baronet.

ON

Mr Fletchers Works.

_Though Poets have a licence which they use As th' ancient priviledge of their free Muse; Yet whether this be leave enough for me To write, great Bard, an Eulogie for thee: Or whether to commend thy Worke, will stand Both with the Lawes of Verse and of the Land, Were to put doubts might raise a discontent Between the Muses and the ---- I'le none of that. There's desperate wits that be (As their immortall Lawrell) Thunder-free; Whose personall vertues, 'bove the Lawes of Fate, Supply the roome of personall estate: And thus enfranchis'd, safely may rehearse, Rapt in a lofty straine, [their] own neck-verse. For he that gives the Bayes to thee, must then First take it from the Militarie Men; He must untriumph conquests, bid 'em stand, Question the strength of their victorious hand. He must act new things, or go neer the sin, Reader, as neer as you and I have been: He must be that, which He that tryes will swear I[t] is not good being so another Yeare. And now that thy great name I've brought to [this], To do it honour is to do amisse, What's to be done to those, that shall refuse To celebrate, great Soule, thy noble Muse?_ _Shall the poore State of all those wandring things, Thy Stage once rais'd to Emperors and Kings? Shall rigid forfeitures (that reach our Heires) Of things that only fill with cares and feares? Shall the privation of a friendlesse life, Made up of contradictions and strife? Shall He be entitie, would antedate His own poore name, and thine annihilate? Shall these be judgements great enough for one That dares not write thee an Encomion? Then where am I? but now I've thought upon't, I'le prayse thee more then all have ventur'd on't. I'le take thy noble Work (and like the trade Where for a heap of Salt pure Gold is layd) I'le lay thy Volume, that Huge Tome of wit, About in Ladies Closets, where they sit Enthron'd in their own wills; and if she bee A Laick sister, shee'l straight flie to thee: But if a holy Habit shee have on, Or be some Novice, shee'l scarce looks upon Thy Lines at first; but watch Her then a while, And you shall see Her steale a gentle smile Upon thy Title, put thee neerer yet, Breath on thy Lines a whisper, and then set Her voyce up to the measures; then begin To blesse the houre, and happy state shee's in. Now shee layes by her Characters, and lookes With a stern eye on all her pretty Bookes. Shee's now thy Voteresse, and the just Crowne She brings thee with it, is worth half the Towne. I'le send thee to the Army, they that fight Will read thy tragedies with some delight, Be all thy Reformadoes, fancy scars, And pay too, in thy speculative wars. I'le send thy Comick scenes to some of those That for a great while have plaid fast and loose; New universalists, by changing shapes, Have made with wit and fortune faire escapes. Then shall the Countrie that poor Tennis-ball Of angry fate, receive thy Pastorall, And from it learn those melancholy straines Fed the afflicted soules of Primitive swaines. Thus the whole World to reverence will flock Thy Tragick Buskin and thy Comick Stock; And winged fame unto posterity Transmit but onely two, this Age, and Thee._

THOMAS PEYTON. _Agricola Anglo-Cantianus._

VERSES

ON THE

Deceased Authour, Mr John Fletcher, his Plays; and especially, _The Mad Lover_.

_Whilst his well organ'd body doth retreat, To its first matter, and the formall heat Triumphant sits in judgement to approve Pieces above our Candour and our love: Such as dare boldly venter to appeare Unto the curious eye, and Criticke eare: Lo the_ Mad Lover _in these various times Is pressed to life, t' accuse us of our crimes. While_ Fletcher _liv'd, who equall to him writ Such lasting Monuments of naturall wit? Others might draw: their lines with sweat, like those That (with much paines) a Garrison inclose; Whilst his sweet fluent veine did gently runne As uncontrold, and smoothly as the Sun. After his death our Theatres did make Him in his own unequald Language speake: And now when all the Muses out of their Approved modesty silent appeare, This Play of_ Fletchers _braves the envious light As wonder of our eares once, now our sight. Three and fourfold blest Poet, who the Lives Of Poets, and of Theaters survives! A Groome, or Ostler of some wit may bring His Pegasus to the Castalian spring; Boast he a race o're the Pharsalian plaine, Or happy_ Tempe _valley dares maintaine: Brag at one leape upon the double Cliffe (Were it as high as monstrous Tennariffe) Of farre-renown'd Parnassus he will get, And there (t' amaze the World) confirme his state: When our admired_ Fletcher _vaunts not ought, And slighted everything he writ as naught: While all our English wondring world (in's cause) Made this great City eccho with applause. Read him therefore all that can read, and those That cannot learne, if y' are not Learnings foes, And wilfully resolved to refuse The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse. From thy great constellation (noble Soule) Looke on this Kingdome, suffer not the whole Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven, But make us entertains what thou hast given. Earthquakes and Thunder Diapasons make The Seas vast roare, and irresistlesse shake Of horrid winds, a sympathy compose; So in these things there's musicke in the close: And though they seem great Discords in our eares, They are not so to them above the Spheares. Granting these Musicke, how much sweeter's that_ Mnemosyne's _daughter's voyces doe create? Since Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Ayre consent To make an Harmony (the Instrument, Their man agreeing selves) shall we refuse The Musicke which the Deities doe use?_ Troys _ravisht_ Ganymed _doth sing to_ Jove, _And_ Phoebus _selfe playes on his Lyre above. The Cretan Gods, or glorious men, who will Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill, Best Poet of thy times, or he will prove As mad as thy brave_ Memnon _was with love._

ASTON COKAINE, Baronet.

Upon the Works of BEAUMONT, and FLETCHER.

_How_ Angels (_cloyster'd in our humane Cells_) _Maintaine their parley,_ Beaumont-Fletcher _tels; Whose strange unimitable Intercourse Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force Of the most forward soules; all must submit Untill they reach these_ Mysteries _of Wit. The_ Intellectuall Language _here's exprest, Admir'd in better times, and dares the Test Of Ours; for from_ Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, _and_ Sence, _This Volume springs a new true_ Quintessence.

JO. PETTUS, Knight.

On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. _John F[l]etcher_, never before Printed.

Haile_ Fletcher, _welcome to the worlds great Stage; For our two houres, we have thee here an age In thy whole Works, and may th'_ Impression _call The_ Pretor _that presents thy Playes to all: Both to the People, and the_ Lords _that sway That_ Herd, _and Ladies whom those Lords obey. And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite But moves on two Poles,_ Profit _and_ Delight, _Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest When every one is tickled with a jest: And that pure_ Fletcher, _able to subdue A_ Melancholy _more then_ Burton _knew. And though upon the by, to his designes The_ Native _may learne English from his lines, And_ th' Alien _if he can but construe it, May here be made free_ Denison _of wit. But his maine end does drooping_ Vertue _raise, And crownes her beauty with eternall_ Bayes; _In Scænes where she inflames the frozen soule, While_ Vice _(her paint washt off) appeares so foule; She must this_ Blessed Isle _and Europe leave, And some new_ Quadrant _of the_ Globe _deceive: Or hide her Blushes on the_ Affrike _shore Like_ Marius, _but ne're rise to_ triumph _more; That_ honour _is resign'd to_ Fletchers _fame; Adde to his Trophies, that a_ Poets _name (Late growne as odious to our_ Moderne _states As that of_ King _to Rome) he vindicates From black aspertions, cast upon't by those Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.

_And_, By the Court of Muses be't decreed, _What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed, When we name_ Fletcher _shall be so proclaimed, As all that's_ Royall _is when_ Cæsar's _nam'd.

ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.

To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. _Francis Beaumont_.

_I'le not pronounce how strong and cleane thou writes, Nor by what new hard Rules thou took'st thy Flights, Nor how much_ Greek _and_ Latin _some refine Before they can make up six words of thine, But this I'le say, thou strik'st our sense so deep, At once thou mak'st us Blush, Rejoyce, and Weep. Great Father_ Johnson _bow'd himselfe when hee (Thou writ'st so nobly) vow'd he _envy'd thee_. Were thy_ Mardonius _arm'd, there would be more Strife for his Sword then all_ Achilles _wore, Such wise just Rage, had Hee been lately tryd My life on't Hee had been o'th' Better side, And where hee found false odds, (through Gold or Sloath) There brave_ Mardonius _would have beat them Both. Behold, here's FLETCHER too! the World ne're knew Two Potent Witts co-operate till You; For still your fancies are so wov'n and knit, 'Twas FRANCIS FLETCHER, or JOHN BEAUMONT writ. Yet neither borrow'd, nor were so put to't To call poore Godds and Goddesses to do't; Nor made Nine Girles your_ Muses _(you suppose Women ne're write, save_ Love-Letters in prose) _But are your owne Inspirers, and have made Such pow'rfull Sceanes, as when they please, invade. Tour Plot, Sence, Language, All's so pure and fit, Hee's Bold, not Valiant, dare dispute your Wit_.

GEORGE LISLE Knight.

On Mr. _JOHN FLETCHER'S_ Workes.

_So shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Wormes Had turned to their owne substances and formes, Whom Earth to Earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire, Wee shall behold more then at first intire As now we doe, to see all thine, thine owne In this thy Muses Resurrection, Whose scattered parts, from thy owne Race, more wounds Hath suffer'd, then_ Acteon _from his hounds; Which first their Braines, and then their Bellies fed, And from their excrements new Poets bred. But now thy Muse inraged from her urne Like Ghosts of Murdred bodyes doth returne To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage, And undeceive the long abused Age, Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit Gives not more Gold then they give drosse to it: Who not content like fellons to purloyne, Adde Treason to it, and debase thy Coyne. But whither am I strayd? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other Mens dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruines built, Nor needs thy juster title the foule guilt Of Easterne Kings, who to secure their Raigne, Must have their Brothers, Sonnes, and Kindred slaine. Then was wits Empire at the fatall height, When labouring and sinking with its weight, From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprong Like petty Princes from the fall of_ Rome. When_ JOHNSON, SHAKESPEARE, _and thy selfe did sit, And sway'd in the Triumvirate of wit-- Yet what from_ JOHNSONS _oyle and sweat did flow, Or what more easie nature did bestow On_ SHAKESPEARES _gentler Muse, in thee full growne Their Graces both appeare, yet so, that none Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins But mixt like th'Elemcnts, and borne like twins, So interweav'd, so like, so much the same, None this meere Nature, that meere Art can name: 'Twas this the Ancients meant, Nature and Skill Are the two topps of their_ Pernassus _Hill_.

J. DENHAM.

Upon Mr. _John Fletcher's_ Playes.

Fletcher, _to thee, wee doe not only owe All these good Playes, but those of others too: Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage, Credits the last and entertaines this age. No Worthies form'd by any Muse but thine Could purchase Robes to make themselves so fine: What brave Commander is not proud to see Thy brave_ Melantius _in his Gallantry, Our greatest Ladyes love to see their scorne Out done by Thine, in what themselves have worne: Th'impatient Widow ere the yeare be done Sees thy_ Aspasia _weeping in her Gowne: I never yet the Tragick straine assay'd Deterr'd by that inimitable_ Maid: _And when I venture at the Comick stile Thy_ Scornfull Lady _seemes to mock my toile: Thus has thy Muse, at once, improv'd and marr'd Our Sport in Playes, by rendring it too hard. So when a sort of lusty Shepheards throw The barre by turns, and none the rest outgoe So farre, but that the best are measuring casts, Their emulation and their pastime lasts; But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guard Step in and tosse the Axeltree a yard Or more beyond the farthest Marke, the rest Despairing stand, their sport is at the best._

EDW. WALLER.

To FLETCHER Reviv'd.

_How have I been Religious? what strange Good Ha's scap't me that I never understood? Have I Hell guarded_ Hæresie _o'rethrowne? Heald wounded States? made Kings and Kingdomes one? That_ Fate _should be so mercifull to me, To let me live t'have said I have read thee. Faire Star ascend! the Joy! the Life! the Light Of this tempestuous Age, this darke worlds sight! Oh from thy Crowne of Glory dart one flame May strike a sacred Reverence, whilest thy Name (Like holy_ Flamens _to their God of Day) We bowing, sing; and whilst we praise, we pray. Bright Spirit! whose Æternall motion Of Wit, like_ Time _still in it selfe did runne; Binding all others in it and did give Commission, how far this, or that shall live: Like_ Destinie _of Poems, who, as she Signes death to all, her selfe can never dye. And now thy purple-robed_ Tragoedie, _In her imbroiderd Buskins, calls mine eye, Where brave_ Atëius _we see betrayed, [-Valentinian-] T'obey his Death, whom thousand lives obeyed; Whilst that the_ Mighty Foole _his Scepter breakes, And through his_ Gen'rals _wounds his owne dooms speaks, Weaving thus richly_ Valentinian _The costliest Monarch with the cheapest man. Souldiers may here to their old glories adde_, [-The Mad Lover.-] The Lover _love, and be with reason_ mad: _Not as of old_, Alcides _furious, Who wilder then his Bull did teare the house, (Hurling his Language with the Canvas stone) 'Twas thought the Monster roar'd the sob'rer Tone. But ah, when thou thy sorrow didst inspire [-Tragi-comedies.-] With Passions, blacke as is her darke attire, Virgins as_ Sufferers _have wept to see [-Arcas.-] So white a Soule, so red a Crueltie; [-Bellario.-] That thou hast grieved, and with unthought redresse, Dri'd their wet eyes who now thy mercy blesse; Yet loth to lose thy watry Jewell, when [-Comedies.-] Joy wip't it off, Laughter straight sprung't agen. [-The Spanish Curate.-] Now ruddy-cheeked_ Mirth _with Rosie wings, Fanns ev'ry brow with gladnesse, whilest she sings [-The Humorous Lieutenant.-] Delight to all, and the whole Theatre A Festivall in Heaven doth appeare: Nothing but Pleasure, Love, and (like the Morne) [-The Tamer Tam'd.-] Each face a generall smiling doth adorne. [-The little french Lawyer.-] Heare ye foule Speakers, that pronounce the Aire [The custom of the Countrey-] Of Stewes and Shores, I will informe you where And how to cloathe aright your wanton wit, Without her nasty Bawd attending it. View here a loose thought said with such a grace, Minerva might have spoke in Venus face; So well disguis'd, that t'was conceiv'd by none But Cupid had Diana's linnen on; And all his naked parts so vail'd, th' expresse The Shape with clowding the uncomlinesse; That if this Reformation which we Receiv'd, had not been buried with thee, The Stage (as this work) might have liv'd and lov'd; Her Lines; the austere Skarlet had approv'd, And th' Actors wisely been from that offence As cleare, as they are now from Audience. Thus with thy Genius did the Scæne expire, Wanting thy Active and inliv'ning fire, That now (to spread a darknesse over all,) Nothing remaines but Poesie to fall. And though from these thy Embers we receive Some warmth, so much as may be said, we live, That we dare praise thee, blushlesse, in the head Of the best piece Hermes to Love e're read, That We rejoyce and glory in thy Wit, And feast each other with remembring it, That we dare speak thy thought, thy Acts recite: Yet all men henceforth be afraid to write_.

RICH. LOVELACE.

On Master JOHN FLETCHERS

Dramaticall Poems.

_Great tutelary Spirit of the Stage_! FLETCHER! _I can fix nothing but my rage Before thy Workes, 'gainst their officious crime Who print thee now, in the worst scæne of Time. For me, uninterrupted hadst thou slept Among the holly shades and close hadst kept The mistery of thy lines, till men might bee Taught how to reade, and then, how to reade thee. But now thou art expos'd to th' common fate, Revive then (mighty Soule!) and vindicate From th' Ages rude affronts thy injured fame, Instruct the Envious, with how chast a flame Thou warmst the Lover; how severely just Thou wert to punish, if he burnt to lust. With what a blush thou didst the Maid adorne, But tempted, with how innocent a scorne. How Epidemick errors by thy_ Play _Were laught out of esteeme, so purged away. How to each sence thou so didst vertue fit, That all grew vertuous to be thought t' have wit. But this was much too narrow for thy art, Thou didst frame governments, give Kings their part, Teach them how neere to God, while just they be; But how dissolved, stretcht forth to Tyrannie. How Kingdomes, in their channell, safely run, But rudely overflowing are undone. Though vulgar spirits Poets scorne or hate; Man may beget, A Poet can create_.

WILL. HABINGTON.

Upon Master FLETCHERS Dramaticall Workes.

_What? now the Stage is down, darst thou appeare Bold_ FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear? Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weight You cast upon them, grow more strong & streight, 'Tis not _love's_ Thunderbolt, nor _Mars_ his Speare, Or _Neptune's_ angry Trident, Poets fear. _Had now grim_ BEN _bin breathing, 'with what rage, And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age_, SHAKESPEARE _with_ CHAPMAN _had grown madd, and torn Their gentle_ Sock, _and lofty_ Buskins _worne, To make their Muse welter up to the chin In blood; of_ faigned _Scenes no need had bin_, England _like_ Lucians _Eagle with an Arrow_ Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow, Had bin a Theater and subject fit To exercise in_ real _truth's their wit: Tet none like high-wing'd_ FLETCHER _had bin found This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound, Rare_ FLETCHER'S _quill_ had soar'd up to the sky, And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy: Live famous Dramatist, let every _spring_ Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons _bring: And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage, Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page_.

JA. HOWELL. _P.C.C._

On the Edition.