Thus th’outward yard set round with bayes w’have seene,
Which from the garden hath transplanted been: 
Thus, at the Praetor’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