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;