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 Scaene 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 scaene 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