ALEX.  BROME.

On the Death and workes of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

My name, so far from great, that tis not knowne, Can lend no praise but what thou’dst blush to own; And no rude hand, or feeble wit should dare To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned teare.  I’de have a State of Wit convoked, which hath A power to take up on common Faith; That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome’s spent In but preparative to thy Monument, The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayes To get new contribution to thy prayse, And reare it high, and equall to thy Wit Which must give life and Monument to it.  So when late ESSEX dy’d, the Publicke face Wore sorrow in’t, and to add mournefull Grace To the sad pomp of his lamented fall, The Common wealth served at his Funerall And by a Solemne Order built his Hearse.  But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse, Where thy advanced Image safely stands Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands.  Base hands how impotently you disclose Your rage ’gainst Camdens learned ashes, whose Defaced Statua and Martyrd booke, Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke. Nonnulla desunt’s legibly appeare, So truly now Camdens Remaines lye there.  Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath Of fame shall speake his great Elizabeth! ’Gainst time and thee he well provided hath, Brittannia is the Tombe and Epitaph.  Thus Princes honours:  but Witt only gives A name which to succeeding ages lives.  Singly we now consult our selves and fame, Ambitious to twist ours with thy great name.  Hence we thus bold to praise.  For as a Vine With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine A friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots And gathers growth and moysture from its roots; About its armes the thankfull clusters cling Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling The blew-cheek’d grape stuck in its vernant haire Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.  So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe Borrow support and strength and lend but show. And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun Strongly begets upon our passion.  Making our sorrow teeme with Elegie, Thou yet unwep’d, and yet unprais’d might’st be.  But th’ are imperfect births; and such are all Produc’d by causes not univocall, The scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit, And hence our verse speakes only Mother wit.  Oh for a fit o’th Father! for a Spirit That might but parcell of thy worth inherit; For but a sparke of that diviner fire Which thy full breast did animate and inspire; That Soules could be divided, thou traduce But a small particle of thine to us!  Of thine; which we admir’d when thou didst sit But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit; When