Part 4

Fletcher, _though some call it thy fault, that wit So overflow'd thy scenes, that ere 'twas fit To come upon the Stage,_ Beaumont _was faine To bid thee be more dull, that's write againe, And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came In a cleare, bright, full, but too large a flame; And after all (finding thy Genius such) That blunted, and allayed, 'twas yet too much; Added his sober spunge, and did contract Thy plenty to lesse wit to make't exact: Yet we through his corrections could see Much treasure in thy superfluity, Which was so fil'd away, as when we doe Cut Jewels, that that's lost is jewell too: Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know By losing makes the streame thence wealthy grow. They who doe on thy worker severely sit, And call thy store the over-births of wit, Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen Had no fault but abundance, which did lay Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play; And hence doe grant, that what they call excesse Was to be reckon'd as thy happinesse, From whom wit issued in a full spring-tide; Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside._ _For that thou couldst thine owne free fancy binde In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd As to observe the rules of Art, which sway In the contrivance of a true borne Play: These workes proclaime which thou didst write retired From_ Beaumont, _by none but thy selfe inspired; Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit, Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit, But like to_ Durers _Pencill, which first knew The lawes of faces, and then faces drew: Thou knowst the aire, the colour, and the place, The simetry, which gives a Poem grace: Parts are so fitted unto parts, as doe Shew thou hadst wit, and Mathematicks too: Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispence, And didst beget just Comedies from thence: Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath, That they (their owne Black-Friers) unacted breath._ Johnson _hath writ things lasting, and divine, Yet his Love-Scenes,_ Fletcher, _compar'd to thine, Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so, As heat with Ice, or warme fires mixt with Snow; Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts, Which burne, and raigne in noble Lovers hearts, Hast cloath'd affections in such native tires, And so describ'd them in their owne true fires; Such moving sighes, suc[h] undissembled teares, Such charmes of language, such hopes mixt with feares, Such grants after denialls, such pursuits After despaire, such amorous recruits, That some who sate spectators have confest Themselves transformed to what they saw exprest, And felt such shafts steale through their captiv'd sence, As made them rise Parts, and goe Lovers thence. Nor was thy stile wholly compos'd of Groves, Or the soft straines of Shepheards and their Loves; When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth In that kinde, came into the world all mirth, All point, all edge, all sharpnesse; we did sit Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit, Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubt In which Scene we laught most two shillings out._ Shakespeare _to thee was dull, whose best jest lyes I'th Ladies questions, and the Fooles replyes; Old fashioned wit, which walkt from town to town In turn'd Hose, which our fathers call'd the Clown; Whose wit our nice times would obsceannesse call, And which made Bawdry passe for Comicall:_ _Nature was all his Art, thy veine was free As his, but without his scurility; From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplext, But without labour cleane, chast, and unvext. Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too; Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealth In Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth; Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes, Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes, Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires, But to their Benefactors dole aspires. Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy selfe to praise Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes Didst write stale commendations to thy Booke, Which we for_ Beaumonts _or_ Ben. Johnsons _tooke: That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he Can truly pay,_ Fletcher, _who writes like thee._

William Cartwright.

On Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then newly dead.)

_He that hath such acutenesse, and such witt, As would aske ten good heads to husband it; He that can write so well that no man dare Refuse it for the best, let him beware:_ BEAUMONT _is dead, by whose sole death appeares, Witt's a Disease consumes men in few yeares._

RICH. CORBET. D.D.

To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)

_How I doe love thee_ BEAUMONT, _and thy_ Muse, _That unto me do'st such religion use! How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth! At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st; And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st. What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves? What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives? When even there where most than praisest me, For writing better, I must envy thee._

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_.

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.

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.