On MR. JOHN FLETC[H]ER’s ever to be admired Dramaticall Works.

  I’ve thought upon’t; and thus I may gaine bayes,
  I will commend thee Fletcher, and thy Playes. 
  But none but Witts can do’t, how then can I
  Come in amongst them, that cou’d ne’re come nigh? 
  There is no other way, I’le throng to sit
  And passe it’h Croud amongst them for a Wit.
  Apollo knows me not, nor I the Nine,
  All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine. 
    By your leave Gentlemen.  You Wits o’th’ age,
  You that both furnisht have, and judg’d the Stage. 
  You who the Poet and the Actors fright,
  Least that your Censure thin the second night: 
  Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
  There ere was solaecisme in FLETCHERS Inke? 
  Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen? 
  A happinesse not still alow’d to Ben!
  After of Time and Wit h’ad been at cost
  He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste. 
  Inspired, FLETCHER! here’s no vaine-glorious words: 
  How ev’n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords. 
  Thy Language so insinuates, each one
  Of thy spectators has thy passion. 
  Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove: 
  Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love: 
  Scenes! chaste yet satisfying!  Ladies can’t say
  Though Stephen miscarri’d that so did the play: 
  Judgement could ne’re to this opinion leane
  That Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene: 
  ’Tis richly good unacted, and to me
  Thy very Farse appears a Comedy. 
  Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
  Stuff’s not thy Playes, but makes ’em up an Art
  The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
  Is smartly scourg’d to checke us? to intice,
  How well encourag’d vertue is? how guarded,
  And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded? 
    Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit,
  Reclaim’d by thee, came converts from the pit. 
  And many a she that to he tane up came,
  Tooke up themselves, and after left the game.

HENRY HARINGTON.

To the memory of the deceased but ever-living Authour in these his Poems, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.

On the large train of Fletchers friends let me (Retaining still my wonted modesty,) Become a Waiter in my ragged verse, As Follower to the Muses Followers.  Many here are of Noble ranke and worth, That have, by strength of Art, set Fletcher forth In true and lively colours, as they saw him, And had the best abilities to draw him; Many more are abroad, that write, and looke To have their lines set before Fletchers Booke; Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse; Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse, And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.  You, that are here before me Gentlemen, And Princes