THOMAS PEYTON. _Agricola Anglo-Cantianus._
Deceased Authour, Mr John Fletcher, his Plays; and especially, _The Mad Lover_.
_Whilst his well organ'd body doth retreat, To its first matter, and the formall heat Triumphant sits in judgement to approve Pieces above our Candour and our love: Such as dare boldly venter to appeare Unto the curious eye, and Criticke eare: Lo the_ Mad Lover _in these various times Is pressed to life, t' accuse us of our crimes. While_ Fletcher _liv'd, who equall to him writ Such lasting Monuments of naturall wit? Others might draw: their lines with sweat, like those That (with much paines) a Garrison inclose; Whilst his sweet fluent veine did gently runne As uncontrold, and smoothly as the Sun. After his death our Theatres did make Him in his own unequald Language speake: And now when all the Muses out of their Approved modesty silent appeare, This Play of_ Fletchers _braves the envious light As wonder of our eares once, now our sight. Three and fourfold blest Poet, who the Lives Of Poets, and of Theaters survives! A Groome, or Ostler of some wit may bring His Pegasus to the Castalian spring; Boast he a race o're the Pharsalian plaine, Or happy_ Tempe _valley dares maintaine: Brag at one leape upon the double Cliffe (Were it as high as monstrous Tennariffe) Of farre-renown'd Parnassus he will get, And there (t' amaze the World) confirme his state: When our admired_ Fletcher _vaunts not ought, And slighted everything he writ as naught: While all our English wondring world (in's cause) Made this great City eccho with applause. Read him therefore all that can read, and those That cannot learne, if y' are not Learnings foes, And wilfully resolved to refuse The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse. From thy great constellation (noble Soule) Looke on this Kingdome, suffer not the whole Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven, But make us entertains what thou hast given. Earthquakes and Thunder Diapasons make The Seas vast roare, and irresistlesse shake Of horrid winds, a sympathy compose; So in these things there's musicke in the close: And though they seem great Discords in our eares, They are not so to them above the Spheares. Granting these Musicke, how much sweeter's that_ Mnemosyne's _daughter's voyces doe create? Since Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Ayre consent To make an Harmony (the Instrument, Their man agreeing selves) shall we refuse The Musicke which the Deities doe use?_ Troys _ravisht_ Ganymed _doth sing to_ Jove, _And_ Phoebus _selfe playes on his Lyre above. The Cretan Gods, or glorious men, who will Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill, Best Poet of thy times, or he will prove As mad as thy brave_ Memnon _was with love._