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.

Fletcher (whose Fame no Age can ever wast;
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive againe; and with his Name
His sacred Ashes wak’d into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charme
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme,
And lend the Lady’s eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light. 
He to a Sympathie those soules betrai’d
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov’d spectatour could beget
A reall passion by a Counterfeit: 
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a teare? 
And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
But seem’d to weare the same sad livery;
By him inspired the feigned Lucina drew
More streams of melting sorrow then the true;
But then the Scornfull Lady did beguile
Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile. 
Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey: 
He Nature taught her passions to out-doe,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likenesse seem’d to beare,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were. 
Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept
In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris’ the Delphick wreath to claime,
Had not the dying sceane expired his Name;
Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcome by this Post-liminium.
His losse preserved him; They that silenc’d Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived,
And Playes by Intermission longer liv’d.

THO.  STANLEY.

On the Edition of Mr Francis Beaumonts, and Mr John Fletchers PLAYES never printed before.

I Am amaz’d; and this same Extacye Is both my Glory and Apology. Sober Joyes are dull Passions; they must beare Proportion to the Subject:  if so; where Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be That Subject; That Joy must be Extacye. Fury is the Complexion of great Wits; The Fooles Distemper:  Hee, thats mad by fits, Is wise so too.  It is the Poets Muse; The