If it might stand with justice to allow
     The swift conversion of all follies, now
     Such is my mercy, that I could admit
     All sorts should equally approve the wit
     Of this thy even work, whose growing fame
     Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name;
     And did not manners and my love command
     Me to forbear to make those understand
     Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom
     Long since firmly resolved, shall never come
     To know more than they do,—­I would have shown
     To all the world the art which thou alone
     Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
     And other rites, delivered with the grace

     Of comic style, which only is fat more
     Than any English stage hath known before. 
     But since our subtle gallants think it good
     To like of naught that may be understood,
     Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best,
     Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest
     But what’s obscene, or barks,—­let us desire
     They may continue, simply to admire
     Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age
     To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
     And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse
     Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER

BY BEAUMONT

Mortality, behold, and fear! 
What a change of flesh is here! 
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones: 
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust,
They preach, “In greatness is no trust.” 
Here’s an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royal’st seed,
That, the earth did e’er suck in
Since the first man died for sin: 
Here the bones of birth have cried,
“Though gods they were, as men they died:” 
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: 
Here’s a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

     FROM ‘PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING’

     ARETHUSA’S DECLARATION

     Lady—­Here is my Lord Philaster.

     Arethusa—­Oh, ’tis well. 
     Withdraw yourself. Exit Lady.

     Philaster—­Madam, your messenger
     Made me believe you wished to speak with me.

Arethusa—­’Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such I have to say, and do so ill beseem The mouth of woman, that I wish them said, And yet am loath to speak them.  Have you known That I have aught detracted from your worth?  Have I in person wronged you? or have set My baser instruments to throw disgrace Upon your virtues?

     Philaster—­Never, madam, you.