of Parnassus by the Penne And your just Judgements of his worth, that have Preserved this Authours mem’ry from the Grave, And made it glorious; let me, at your gate, Porter it here, ’gainst those that come too late, And are unfit to enter.  Something I Will deserve here:  For where you versifie In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time, I’ll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.  I am admitted.  Now, have at the Rowt Of those that would crowd in, but must keepe out.  Beare back, my Masters; Pray keepe backe; Forbeare:  You cannot, at this time, have entrance here.  You, that are worthy, may, by intercession, Finde entertainment at the next Impression.  But let none then attempt it, that not know The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:  All such must be excluded; and the sort, That onely upon trust, or by report Have taken Fletcher up, and thinke it trim To have their Verses planted before Him:  Let them read first his Works, and learne to know him, And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.  But farre from hence be such, as would proclaim Their knowledge of this Authour, not his Fame; And such, as would pretend, of all the rest, To be the best Wits that have known him best.  Depart hence all such Writers, and, before Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score, As formerly, before Tom Coryate, Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate To perish:  For the Witty Coppies tooke Of his Encomiums made themselves a Booke. Here’s no such subject for you to out-doe, Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too In other Spheres:) For Fletchers flourishing Bayes Must never fade while Phoebus weares his Rayes.  Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.  Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?  Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?  And stil’d (at best) the Muses Serving-creature? Doe you comptroll?  Y’have had your Jere:  Sirs, no; But, in an humble manner, let you know Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit T’ informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit, What they inherit; and how well their Dads Left one, and wish’d the other to their Lads.  And from departed Poets I can guesse Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.  ’Way Foole, another says.  I, let him raile, And ’bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle, Till with his Swingle he his Noddle breake; While this of Fletcher and his Works I speake:  His Works (says Momus) nay, his Plays you’d say:  Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play Which was to others braines a toyle:  with ease He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.  His nimble Births have longer liv’d then theirs That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines Upon the Stage; and shall to th’ Stationers gaines Life after life take, till some After-age Shall put down Printing, as this doth the Stage;