_The Poet lives; wonder not how or why_ Fletcher _revives, but that he er'e could dye: Safe_ Mirth, _full_ Language, _flow in ev'ry Page, At once he doth both_ heighten _and_ aswage; _All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and cleare, Nor_ Church _nor_ Lawes _were ever Libel'd here; But faire deductions drawn from his great Braine, Enough to conquer all that's_ False _or_ Vaine; _He scatters Wit, and Sence so freely flings That very_ Citizens _speake handsome things, Teaching their_ Wives _such unaffected grace, Their_ Looks _are now as handsome as their_ Face. _Nor is this violent, he steals upon The yeilding Soule untill the_ Phrensie's _gone_; _His very_ Launcings _do the Patient_ please, _As when good_ Musicke _cures a_ Mad Disease. _Small Poets rifle Him, yet thinke it faire, Because they rob a man that well can spare; They feed upon him, owe him every bit, Th'are all but_ Sub-excisemen _of his Wit._
On the Workes of _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_, now at length printed.
_Great paire of Authors, whom one equall Starre Begot so like in_ Genius, _that you are In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit, That no man knowes where to divide your wit, Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire, And did each other mutually inspire; Whether one did contrive, the other write, Or one framed the plot, the other did indite; Whether one found the matter, th'other dresse, Or the one disposed what th'other did expresse; Where e're your parts betweene your selves lay, we, In all things which you did but one thred see, So evenly drawne out, so gently spunne, That Art with Nature nere did smoother run. Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what part Of all your numerous Labours hath desert More to be fam'd then other? shall I say, I've met a lover so drawne in your Play, So passionately written, so inflamed, So jealously inraged, then gently tam'd, That I in reading have the Person seene. And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been? Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbeare To clap, when I a Captain do meet there, So lively in his owne vaine humour drest, So braggingly, and like himself exprest, That moderne Cowards, when they saw him plaid, Saw, blusht, departed guilty, and betraid? You wrote all parts right; whatsoe're the Stage Had from you, was seene there as in the age, And had their equall life: Vices which were Manners abroad, did grow corrected there: _They who possest a Box, and halfe Crowns spent To learne Obscenenes, returned innocent, And thankt you for this coznage, whose chaste Scene Taught Loves so noble, so reformed, so cleane, That they who brought foule fires, and thither came To bargaine, went thence with a holy flame. Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and Veyne Held both to Tragick and to Comick straine; Where e're you listed to be high and grave, No Buskin shew'd more solem[n]e, no quill gave Such feeling objects to draw teares from eyes, Spectators sate part in your Tragedies. And where you listed to be low, and free, Mirth turn'd the whole house into Comedy; So piercing (where you pleas'd) hitting a fault, That humours from your pen issued all salt. Nor were you thus in Works and Poems knit, As to be but two halfes, and make one wit; But as some things we see, have double cause, And yet the effect it selfe from both whole drawes; So though you were thus twisted and combind As two bodies, to have but one faire minde Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say Both joyn'd, and both did wholly make the Play, For that you could write singly, we may guesse By the divided peeces which the Presse Hath severally sent forth; nor were gone so (Like some our Moderne Authors) made to go On meerely by the helpe of the other, who To purchase fame do come forth one of two; Nor wrote you so, that ones part was to lick The other into shape, nor did one stick The others cold inventions with such wit, As served like spice, to make them quick and fit; Nor out of mutuall want, or emptinesse, Did you conspire to go still twins to th' Presse: But what thus joy tied you wrote, might have come forth As good from each, and stored with the same worth That thus united them, you did joyne sense, In you 'twas League, in others impotence; And the Presse which both thus amongst us sends, Sends us one Poet in a faire of friends._