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VERSES

ON THE

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.
 

ASTON COKAINE, Baronet.

Upon the Works of BEAUMONT, and FLETCHER.

 
How Angels (cloyster'd in our humane Cells)
Maintaine their parley, Beaumont-Fletcher tels;
Whose strange unimitable Intercourse
Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force
Of the most forward soules; all must submit
Untill they reach these Mysteries of Wit.
The Intellectuall Language here's exprest,
Admir'd in better times, and dares the Test
Of Ours; for from Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, and Sence,
This Volume springs a new true Quintessence.
 

JO. PETTUS, Knight.

On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. John F[l]etcher, never before Printed.

 
Haile_ Fletcher, welcome to the worlds great Stage;
For our two houres, we have thee here an age
In thy whole Works, and may th' Impression call
The Pretor that presents thy Playes to all:
Both to the People, and the Lords that sway
That Herd, and Ladies whom those Lords obey.
And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite
But moves on two Poles, Profit and Delight,
Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest
When every one is tickled with a jest:
And that pure Fletcher, able to subdue
A Melancholy more then Burton knew.
And though upon the by, to his designes
The Native may learne English from his lines,
And th' Alien if he can but construe it,
May here be made free Denison of wit.
But his maine end does drooping Vertue raise,
And crownes her beauty with eternall Bayes;
In Scænes where she inflames the frozen soule,
While Vice (her paint washt off) appeares so foule;
She must this Blessed Isle and Europe leave,
And some new Quadrant of the Globe deceive:
Or hide her Blushes on the Affrike shore
Like Marius, but ne're rise to triumph more;
That honour is resign'd to Fletchers fame;
Adde to his Trophies, that a Poets name
(Late growne as odious to our Moderne states
As that of King _to Rome) he vindicates
From black aspertions, cast upon't by those
Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.
And, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,
What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,
When we name Fletcher shall be so proclaimed,
As all that's Royall is when Cæsar's _nam'd.
 

ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.

To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. Francis Beaumont.

 
I'le not pronounce how strong and cleane thou writes,
Nor by what new hard Rules thou took'st thy Flights,
Nor how much Greek and Latin some refine
Before they can make up six words of thine,
But this I'le say, thou strik'st our sense so deep,
At once thou mak'st us Blush, Rejoyce, and Weep.
Great Father Johnson _bow'd himselfe when hee
(Thou writ'st so nobly) vow'd he envy'd thee.
Were thy_ Mardonius arm'd, there would be more
Strife for his Sword then all Achilles wore,
Such wise just Rage, had Hee been lately tryd
My life on't Hee had been o'th' Better side,
And where hee found false odds, (through Gold or Sloath)
There brave Mardonius would have beat them Both.
Behold, here's FLETCHER too! the World ne're knew
Two Potent Witts co-operate till You;
For still your fancies are so wov'n and knit,
'Twas FRANCIS FLETCHER, or JOHN BEAUMONT writ.
Yet neither borrow'd, nor were so put to't
To call poore Godds and Goddesses to do't;
Nor made Nine Girles your Muses (you suppose
Women ne're write, save Love-Letters in prose)
But are your owne Inspirers, and have made
Such pow'rfull Sceanes, as when they please, invade.
Tour Plot, Sence, Language, All's so pure and fit,
Hee's Bold, not Valiant, dare dispute your Wit.
 

GEORGE LISLE Knight.

On Mr. JOHN FLETCHER'S Workes.

 
So shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Wormes
Had turned to their owne substances and formes,
Whom Earth to Earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire,
Wee shall behold more then at first intire
As now we doe, to see all thine, thine owne
In this thy Muses Resurrection,
Whose scattered parts, from thy owne Race, more wounds
Hath suffer'd, then Acteon from his hounds;
Which first their Braines, and then their Bellies fed,
And from their excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse inraged from her urne
Like Ghosts of Murdred bodyes doth returne
To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit
Gives not more Gold then they give drosse to it:
Who not content like fellons to purloyne,
Adde Treason to it, and debase thy Coyne.
But whither am I strayd? I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other Mens dispraise;
Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruines built,
Nor needs thy juster title the foule guilt
Of Easterne Kings, who to secure their Raigne,
Must have their Brothers, Sonnes, and Kindred slaine.
Then was wits Empire at the fatall height,
When labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprong
Like petty Princes from the fall of Rome.
When_ JOHNSON, SHAKESPEARE, and thy selfe did sit,
And sway'd in the Triumvirate of wit—
Yet what from JOHNSONS oyle and sweat did flow,
Or what more easie nature did bestow
On SHAKESPEARES gentler Muse, in thee full growne
Their Graces both appeare, yet so, that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins
But mixt like th'Elemcnts, and borne like twins,
So interweav'd, so like, so much the same,
None this meere Nature, that meere Art can name:
'Twas this the Ancients meant, Nature and Skill
Are the two topps of their Pernassus Hill.
 

J. DENHAM.

Upon Mr. John Fletcher's Playes.

 
Fletcher, to thee, wee doe not only owe
All these good Playes, but those of others too:
Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage,
Credits the last and entertaines this age.
No Worthies form'd by any Muse but thine
Could purchase Robes to make themselves so fine:
What brave Commander is not proud to see
Thy brave Melantius in his Gallantry,
Our greatest Ladyes love to see their scorne
Out done by Thine, in what themselves have worne:
Th'impatient Widow ere the yeare be done
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her Gowne:
I never yet the Tragick straine assay'd
Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid:
And when I venture at the Comick stile
Thy Scornfull Lady seemes to mock my toile:
Thus has thy Muse, at once, improv'd and marr'd
Our Sport in Playes, by rendring it too hard.
So when a sort of lusty Shepheards throw
The barre by turns, and none the rest outgoe
So farre, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;
But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guard
Step in and tosse the Axeltree a yard
Or more beyond the farthest Marke, the rest
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best.
 

EDW. WALLER.

To FLETCHER Reviv'd.

 
How have I been Religious? what strange Good
Ha's scap't me that I never understood?
Have I Hell guarded Hæresie o'rethrowne?
Heald wounded States? made Kings and Kingdomes one?
That Fate should be so mercifull to me,
To let me live t'have said I have read thee.
Faire Star ascend! the Joy! the Life! the Light
Of this tempestuous Age, this darke worlds sight!
Oh from thy Crowne of Glory dart one flame
May strike a sacred Reverence, whilest thy Name
(Like holy Flamens to their God of Day)
We bowing, sing; and whilst we praise, we pray.
Bright Spirit! whose Æternall motion
Of Wit, like Time still in it selfe did runne;
Binding all others in it and did give
Commission, how far this, or that shall live:
Like Destinie of Poems, who, as she
Signes death to all, her selfe can never dye.
And now thy purple-robed Tragoedie,
In her imbroiderd Buskins, calls mine eye,
Where brave Atëius we see betrayed, [-Valentinian-]
T'obey his Death, whom thousand lives obeyed;
Whilst that the Mighty Foole his Scepter breakes,
And through his Gen'rals wounds his owne dooms speaks,
Weaving thus richly Valentinian
The costliest Monarch with the cheapest man.
Souldiers may here to their old glories adde, [-The Mad Lover.-]
The Lover love, and be with reason mad:
Not as of old, Alcides furious,
Who wilder then his Bull did teare the house,
(Hurling his Language with the Canvas stone)
'Twas thought the Monster roar'd the sob'rer Tone.
But ah, when thou thy sorrow didst inspire [-Tragi-comedies.-]
With Passions, blacke as is her darke attire,
Virgins as Sufferers have wept to see [-Arcas.-]
So white a Soule, so red a Crueltie; [-Bellario.-]
That thou hast grieved, and with unthought redresse,
Dri'd their wet eyes who now thy mercy blesse;
Yet loth to lose thy watry Jewell, when [-Comedies.-]
Joy wip't it off, Laughter straight sprung't agen.
[-The Spanish Curate.-]
Now ruddy-cheeked Mirth with Rosie wings,
Fanns ev'ry brow with gladnesse, whilest she sings
[-The Humorous Lieutenant.-]
Delight to all, and the whole Theatre
A Festivall in Heaven doth appeare:
Nothing but Pleasure, Love, and (like the Morne) [-The Tamer Tam'd.-]
Each face a generall smiling doth adorne. [-The little french Lawyer.-]
Heare ye foule Speakers, that pronounce the Aire
[The custom of the Countrey-]
Of Stewes and Shores, I will informe you where
And how to cloathe aright your wanton wit,
Without her nasty Bawd attending it.
View here a loose thought said with such a grace,
Minerva might have spoke in Venus face;
So well disguis'd, that t'was conceiv'd by none
But Cupid had Diana's linnen on;
And all his naked parts so vail'd, th' expresse
The Shape with clowding the uncomlinesse;
That if this Reformation which we
Receiv'd, had not been buried with thee,
The Stage (as this work) might have liv'd and lov'd;
Her Lines; the austere Skarlet had approv'd,
And th' Actors wisely been from that offence
As cleare, as they are now from Audience.
Thus with thy Genius did the Scæne expire,
Wanting thy Active and inliv'ning fire,
That now (to spread a darknesse over all,)
Nothing remaines but Poesie to fall.
And though from these thy Embers we receive
Some warmth, so much as may be said, we live,
That we dare praise thee, blushlesse, in the head
Of the best piece Hermes to Love e're read,
That We rejoyce and glory in thy Wit,
And feast each other with remembring it,
That we dare speak thy thought, thy Acts recite:
Yet all men henceforth be afraid to write.
 

RICH. LOVELACE.

On Master JOHN FLETCHERS Dramaticall Poems.

 
Great tutelary Spirit of the Stage!
FLETCHER! I can fix nothing but my rage
Before thy Workes, 'gainst their officious crime
Who print thee now, in the worst scæne of Time.
For me, uninterrupted hadst thou slept
Among the holly shades and close hadst kept
The mistery of thy lines, till men might bee
Taught how to reade, and then, how to reade thee.
But now thou art expos'd to th' common fate,
Revive then (mighty Soule!) and vindicate
From th' Ages rude affronts thy injured fame,
Instruct the Envious, with how chast a flame
Thou warmst the Lover; how severely just
Thou wert to punish, if he burnt to lust.
With what a blush thou didst the Maid adorne,
But tempted, with how innocent a scorne.
How Epidemick errors by thy Play
Were laught out of esteeme, so purged away.
How to each sence thou so didst vertue fit,
That all grew vertuous to be thought t' have wit.
But this was much too narrow for thy art,
Thou didst frame governments, give Kings their part,
Teach them how neere to God, while just they be;
But how dissolved, stretcht forth to Tyrannie.
How Kingdomes, in their channell, safely run,
But rudely overflowing are undone.
Though vulgar spirits Poets scorne or hate;
Man may beget, A Poet can create.
 

WILL. HABINGTON.

Upon Master FLETCHERS Dramaticall Workes.

 
What? now the Stage is down, darst thou appeare
Bold FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear?
Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weight
You cast upon them, grow more strong & streight,
'Tis not love's Thunderbolt, nor Mars his Speare,
Or Neptune's angry Trident, Poets fear.
Had now grim BEN bin breathing, 'with what rage,
And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age,
SHAKESPEARE with CHAPMAN had grown madd, and torn
Their gentle Sock, and lofty Buskins worne,
To make their Muse welter up to the chin
In blood; of faigned Scenes no need had bin,
England like Lucians Eagle with an Arrow
Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow,
Had bin a Theater and subject fit
To exercise in_ real truth's their wit:
Tet none like high-wing'd FLETCHER had bin found
This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound,
Rare FLETCHER'S quill had soar'd up to the sky,
And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy:
Live famous Dramatist, let every spring
Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons bring:
And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage,
Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page.
 

JA. HOWELL. P.C.C.

On the Edition.

 
Fletcher (whose Fame no Age can ever wast;
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive againe; and with his Name
His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charme
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme,
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light.
He to a Sympathie those soules betrai'd
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
A reall passion by a Counterfeit:
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a teare?
And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
But seem'd to weare the same sad livery;
By him inspired the feigned Lucina drew
More streams of melting sorrow then the true;
But then the Scornfull Lady did beguile
Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile.
Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey:
He Nature taught her passions to out-doe,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likenesse seem'd to beare,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept
In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claime,
Had not the dying sceane expired his Name;
Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcome by this Post-liminium.
His losse preserved him; They that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived,
And Playes by Intermission longer liv'd.
 

THO. STANLEY.

On the Edition of Mr Francis Beaumonts, and Mr John Fletchers PLAYES never printed before.

 
I Am amaz'd; and this same Extacye
Is both my Glory and Apology.
Sober Joyes are dull Passions; they must beare
Proportion to the Subject: if so; where
Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be
That Subject; That Joy must be Extacye.
Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;
The Fooles Distemper: Hee, thats mad by fits,
Is wise so too. It is the Poets Muse;
The Prophets God: the Fooles, and my excuse.
For (in Me) nothing lesse then Fletchers Name
Could have begot, or justify'd this flame.
Beaumont }
Fletcher } Return'd? methinks it should not be.
No, not in's Works: Playes are as dead as He.
The Palate of this age gusts nothing High;
That has not Custard in't or Bawdery.
Folly and Madnesse fill the Stage: The Scæne
Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the Meane,
The Foole 'scapes well enough; Learned and Great,
Suffer an Ostracisme; stand Exulate.
 
 
Mankinde is fall'n againe, shrunke a degree,
A step below his very Apostacye.
Nature her Selfe is out of Tune; and Sicke
Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatique.
Yet what World would not cheerfully endure
The Torture, or Disease, t' enjoy the Cure?
 
 
This Booke's the Balsame, and the Hellebore,
Must preserve bleeding Nature, and restore
Our Crazy Stupor to a just quick Sence
Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.
That teaches us (at Once) to feele, and know,
Two deep Points: what we want, and what we owe.
Yet Great Goods have their Ills: Should we transmit
To Future Times, the Pow'r of Love and Wit,
In this Example: would they not combine
To make Our Imperfections Their Designe?
They'd study our Corruptions; and take more
Care to be Ill, then to be Good, before.
For _nothing but so great Infirmity,
Could make Them worthy of such Remedy.
 
 
Have you not scene the Suns almighty Ray
Rescue th' affrighted World_, and redeeme Day
From blacke despaire: how his victorious Beame
Scatters the Storme, and drownes the petty flame
Of Lightning, in the glory of his eye:
How full of pow'r, how full of Majesty?
When to us Mortals, nothing else was knowne,
But the sad doubt, whether to burne, or drowne.
 
 
Choler, and Phlegme, Heat, and dull Ignorance,
Have cast the people into such a Trance,
That feares and danger seeme Great equally,
And no dispute left now, but how to dye.
Just in this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare
Of all disorder and reformes us here.
 
 
The formall Youth, that knew no other Grace,
Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,
Glasses himselfe: and in this faithfull Mirrour,
Views, disaproves, reformes, repents his Errour.
 
 
The Credulous, bright Girle, that beleeves all
Language, (in Othes) if Good, Canonicall,
Is fortifi'd, and taught, here, to beware
Of ev'ry specious bayte, of ev'ry snare
Save one: and that same Caution takes her more,
Then all the flattery she felt before.
She finds her Boxes, and her Thoughts betray'd
By the Corruption of the Chambermaide:
Then throwes her Washes and dissemblings By;
And Vowes nothing but Ingenuity.
 

The severe States-man quits his sullen forme Of Gravity and bus'nesse; The Luke-warme Religious his Neutrality; The hot Braine-sicke Illuminate his zeale; The Sot Stupidity; The Souldier his Arreares; The Court its Confidence; The Plebs their feares; Gallants their Apishnesse and Perjurie, Women their Pleasure and Inconstancie; Poets their Wine; the Usurer his Pelfe; The World its Vanity; and I my Selfe.