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Denison of wit. But his maine end does drooping
Vertue raise, And crownes her beauty with eternall
Bayes; In Scaenes 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 Caesar’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
