In Majestie, and call Tribute from our Eyes; Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so, Who only came to see, turned Actors too.  How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feele The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele!  Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knows When the Spectators ran to save the blow?  Frozen with griefe we could not stir away Untill the Epilogue told us ’twas a Play.  What shall I doe? all Commendations end, In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?  Give me thy spirit quickely, for I swell, And like a raveing Prophetesse cannot tell How to receive thy Genius in my breast:  Oh!  I must sleepe, and then I’le sing the rest.

T. Palmer of Ch.  Ch.  Oxon.

Upon the unparalelld Playes written by those Renowned Twinnes of Poetry BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

What’s here? another Library of prayse,
Met in a Troupe t’advance contemned Playes
And bring exploded Witt againe in fashion? 
I can’t but wonder at this Reformation,
My skipping soule surfets with so much good,
To see my hopes into fruition budd. 
A happy Chimistry! blest viper, joy!
That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way! 
Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect
In spight of Ignorance the Architect
Of Occidentall Poesye; and turne
Godds, to recall witts ashes from their urne. 
Like huge Collosses they’ve together mett
Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt. 
The tale of Atlas (though of truth it misse)
We plainely read Mythologiz’d in this;
Orpheus and Amphion whose undying stories
Made Athens famous, are but Allegories.
Tis Poetry has pow’r to civilize
Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees,
I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall)
That witt is past its Climactericall;
And though the Muses have beene dead and gone
I know they’ll finde a Resurrection.
Tis vaine to prayse; they’re to themselves a glory,
And silence is our sweetest Oratory.
For he that names but FLETCHER must needs be
Found guilty of a loud hyperbole.
His fancy so transcendently aspires,
He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires. 
Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,
The very Anagrams of Eloquence,
Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,
Being rightly spelld, but Witts Stenographie.
Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,
Only cesura’d to spin out the time. 
But heer’s a Magazine of purest sence
Cloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence. 
Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veines
Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines. 
Lines like their Authours, and each word of it
Does say twas writ b’ a Gemini of Witt. 
How happie is our age! how blest our men! 
When such rare soules live themselves o’re