The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes: Volume 01.

THE WORKS OF FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER

In ten volumes

Vol. I

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

Born 1584

Died 1616

JOHN FLETCHER

Born 1579

Died 1625

THE MAIDS TRAGEDY

PHILASTER

A KING, AND NO KING

THE SCORNFUL LADY

THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY

THE TEXT EDITED BY

ARNOLD GLOVER, M.A.

OF TRINITY COLLEGE AND THE INNER TEMPLE

NOTE.

The first collected edition of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher was published in 1647, in folio (12 1/2 ins. x 8 1/8 ins. is the measurement of the copy used for the purpose of collation). The title-page runs thus:—

Comedies | and | Tragedies |

                        { Francis Beaumont }
  |written by { And } Gentlemen. |
                        { John Fletcher }

Never printed before, | And now published by the Authours | Originall Copies. | Si quid habent veri Vatum præsagia, vivam.|London, | Printed for Humphrey Robinson, at the three Pidgeons, and for | Humphrey Moseley at the Princes Armes in St Pauls.

This collection, which is referred to as the First Folio throughout the present edition, contained all the authors' previously unpublished plays (34) except The Wild-Goose Chase, which, at the date of the Folio, was supposed to be lost. The dedicatory epistles, commendatory poem, and Catalogue of Plays, prefixed to the First Folio, are reprinted in the preliminary pages at the end of this Note (pp. ix—lvii).

The second collected edition appeared in 1679 in folio (14-3/8 ins. x 8-1/4 ins.); a reprint of the title-page is given on p. lix of the present volume. This collection, referred to henceforth as the Second Folio, contained (i) all the plays included in the First Folio, (ii) The Wild-Goose Chase, which had been published in folio in 1652, (iii) all the other then known plays of the authors which had been published previously to 1679.

William Marshall's portrait of John Fletcher faces the title-page of both folios with the following inscription engraved underneath:—

Felicis ævi ac Præsulis Natus; comes Beaumontis; sic, quippe Parnassus, biceps; FLETCHERUS unam in Pyramida furcas agens. Struxit chorum plus simplicem Vates Duplex; Plus duplicem solus: nec ullum transtulit; Nec transferendus: Dramatum æterni sales, Anglo Theatro, Orbe, Sibi, superstites.

FLETCHERE, facies absqz vultu pingitur; Quantus! vel umbram circuit nemo tuam.

J. Berkenhead.

Later collected editions of the works were published in 1711 (7 vols.); 1750, edited by Lewis Theobald, Thomas Seward and J. Sympson (10 vols.); 1778, edited by George Colman (10 vols.); 1812, edited by Henry Weber (14 vols.); 1843, edited by Alexander Dyce (11 vols.). It is unnecessary to refer in detail to these later editions which, very widely as they differ among themselves, agree in presenting an eclectic text, a text formed partly by a collation of the various old editions and partly by the adoption of conjectural emendations. During the progress of work upon the present issue another edition has been announced, under the general editorship of Mr A. H. Bullen, and the first volume was published last year. It follows the lines of its predecessors in presenting a modernised text, giving 'a fuller record than had been given by Dyce of variæ lectiones,' and pleading, in its prospectus, that, 'for the use of scholars, there should be editions of all our old authors in old spelling.'

The objects of the present edition, in accordance with the scheme of the series of ENGLISH CLASSICS of which it is a part, are to provide (i) a text in which there shall be no deviation from that adopted as its basis, in the matter of spelling, punctuation, the use of capitals and italics, save as recorded, and to give (ii) an apparatus of variant readings as an Appendix, comprising the texts of all the early issues, that is to say, of all editions prior to and including the Second Folio. Within these limits, and apart from mere variations in spelling and punctuation, every variation, whether deemed important or not, is recorded in the Appendixes to these volumes.

Of the 52 Plays in the Second Folio only 5 were published before the death of Beaumont and 9 before the death of Fletcher. The text has, therefore, given rise to a fruitful crop of conjectural emendations, but it has not been deemed a part of the editor's duty to garner them. Leaving these on one side, and desirous mainly of collecting every alternative reading in all the Quartos and in the two Folios, the text used in the preparation of the present edition, chosen after careful consideration, is that of the Second Folio, obvious printers' errors being corrected, recorded in the Appendix, and indicated in the text by the insertion of square brackets. This text is the latest with any pretence to authority, it includes all the plays, and it forms a convenient limit, beyond which no notice has been taken of alternative readings, and to which the variants, chronologically arranged from the earliest to the latest Quartos, can easily be referred. Some of the early Quartos no doubt offer better texts of some of the plays, especially in the matter of verse and prose arrangement, and had it been intended to print one text, and one text only, unaccompanied by a full apparatus of variorum readings, something might be said in favour of a choice among the Quartos and Folios, selecting here and there, in the case of each play, the particular text that seemed the best. But such choice could only be an extension of the eclectic method that has been rejected in dealing with alternative readings, it seemed to be equally unscientific, and, in view of the material in the Appendixes, needless.

In common with all the Quartos and the First Folio the Second Folio has failings, which will be noted in due course, but these have been exaggerated, and against them may be set the advantages detailed in the address of 'The Booksellers to the Reader,' reprinted on p. lx.

It has been thought that it would be useful to students to give lists of the different arrangements of prose and verse that obtain in the different quartos, and these will be found in the Appendix after the variants of each play.

The remaining volumes of this edition will follow as soon as can be arranged.

* * * * *

The Syndics of the University Press have asked me to complete the work begun by Arnold Glover. It was a work greatly to his mind: he spent much labour upon it, being always keenly interested in critical, textual and bibliographical work in English literature; he welcomed a return to his earlier studies among the Elizabethans after five years given to the works of one of their most discerning critics; but he did not live to see the publication of the first volume of his new work. When he died in the January of this year, the text of volumes one and two had been passed for press, the material accumulated for the Appendixes to those volumes and the draft of the above 'Note' partly written. With the assistance of Mrs Arnold Glover, who had helped him in the laborious work of collation, I have checked and arranged this editorial material for press. I hope I have not let any error escape me which he would have detected.

A. R. WALLER. CAMBRIDGE, 2 August, 1905.

CONTENTS

Epistle Dedicatorie to the First Folio

Ja. Shirley to the Reader (First Folio)

The Stationer to the Readers (First Folio)

Commendatory Verses (First Folio)

A Catalogue of all the Comedies and Tragedies (First Folio)

Title-page of the Second Folio

The Booksellers to the Reader (Second Folio)

A Catalogue of all the Comedies and Tragedies (Second Folio)

The Maids Tragedy

Philaster: or, Love lies a Bleeding

A King, and no King

The Scornful Lady, a Comedy

The Custom of the Country

Appendix

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PHILIP

Earle of Pembroke and Mountgomery:

Baron Herbert of Cardiffe and Sherland,

Lord Parr and Ross of Kendall; Lord Fitz-Hugh,

Marmyon, and Saint Quintin; Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter; and one of His Majesties most Honourable Privie Councell: And our Singular Good Lord.

My Lord, There is none among all the Names of Honour, that hath A more encouraged the Legitimate Muses of this latter Age, then that which is owing to your Familie; whose Coronet shines bright with the native luster of its owne Jewels, which with the accesse of some Beames of Sydney, twisted with their Flame presents a Constellation, from whose Influence all good may be still expected upon Witt and Learning.

At this Truth we rejoyce, but yet aloofe, and in our owne valley, for we dare not approach with any capacity in our selves to apply your Smile, since wee have only preserved as Trustees to the Ashes of the Authors, what wee exhibit to your Honour, it being no more our owne, then those Imperiall Crownes and Garlands were the Souldiers, who were honourably designed for their Conveyance before the Triumpher to the Capitol.

But directed by the example of some, who once steered in our qualitie, and so fortunately aspired to choose your Honour, joyned with your (now glorified) Brother, Patrons to the flowing compositions of the then expired sweet Swan of Avon SHAKESPEARE; and since, more particularly bound to your Lordships most constant and diffusive Goodnesse, from which, wee did for many calme yeares derive a subsistence to our selves, and Protection to the Scene (now withered, and condemned, as we feare, to a long Winter and sterilitie) we have presumed to offer to your Selfe, what before was never printed of these Authours.

Had they beene lesse then all the Treasure we had contrasted in the whole Age of Poesie (some few Poems of their owne excepted, which already published, command their entertainement, with all lovers of Art and Language) or were they not, the most justly admir'd, and beloved Pieces of Witt and the World, _wee should have taught our selves a lesse Ambition.

Be pleased to accept this humble tender of our duties, and till we faile in our obedience to all your Commands, vouchsafe, we may be knowne by the_ Cognizance and Character of

MY LORD,

Your Honours most bounden

  John Lowin
  Richard Robinson
  Eyloerd Swanston
  Hugh Clearke
  Stephen Hammerton
  Joseph Taylor
  Robert Benfeild
  Thomas Pollard
  William Allen
  Theophilus Byrd.

TO THE READER.

Poetry is the Child of Nature, which regulated and made beautifull by Art, presenteth the most Harmonious of all other compositions; among which (if we rightly consider) the Dramaticall is the most absolute, in regard of those transcendent Abilities, which should waite upon the_ Composer; who must have more then the instruction of Libraries which of it selfe is but a cold contemplative knowledge there being required in him a Soule miraculously knowing, and conversing with all mankind, inabling him to expresse not onely the Phlegme and folly of thick-skin'd men, but the strength and maturity of the wise, the Aire and insinuations of the Court, _the discipline and Resolution of the Soldier, the Vertues and passions of every noble condition, nay the councells and charailers of the greatest Princes.

This you will say is a vast comprehension, and hath not hapned in many Ages. Be it then remembred to the Glory of our owne, that all these are Demonstrative and met in_ BEAUMONT & FLETCHER, whom but to mention is to throw a cloude upon all former names and benight Posterity; This Book being, without flattery, the greatest Monument of the Scene that Time and Humanity have produced, and must Live, not only the Crowne and sole Reputation of our owne, but the stayne of all other Nations and Languages, for it may be boldly averred, not one indiscretion hath branded this Paper in all the Lines, this being the Authentick witt that made Blackfriers an Academy, where the three howers spectacle while Beaumont and Fletcher _were presented, were usually of more advantage to the hopefull young Heire, then a costly, dangerous, forraigne Travell, with the assistance of a governing Mounsieur, or Signior to boot; And it cannot be denied but that the young spirits of the Time, whose Birth & Quality made them impatient of the sowrer wayes of education, have from the attentive hearing these pieces, got ground in point of wit and carriage of the most severely employed Students, while these Recreations were digested into Rules, and the very Pleasure did edifie. How many passable discoursing dining witts stand yet in good credit upon the bare stock of two or three of these single Scenes.

And now Reader in this_ Tragicall Age where the Theater hath been so much out-ailed, congratulate thy owne happinesse, that in this silence of the Stage, thou hast a liberty to reade these inimitable Playes, to dwell and converse in these immortall Groves, which were only shewd our Fathers in a conjuring glasse, as suddenly removed as represented, the Landscrap is now brought home by this optick, and the Presse thought too pregnant before, shall be now look'd upon as greatest Benefactor to Englishmen, that must acknowledge all the felicity of witt and words _to this Derivation.

You may here find passions raised to that excellent pitch and by such insinuating degrees that you shall not chuse but consent, and & go along with them, finding your self at last grown insensibly the very same person you read, and then stand admiring the subtile Trackes of your engagement. Fall on a Scene of love and you will never believe the writers could have the least roome left in their soules for another passion, peruse a Scene of manly Rage, and you would sweare they cannot be exprest by the same hands, but both are so excellently wrought, you must confesse none, but the same hands, could worke them.

Would thy Melancholy have a cure? thou shalt laugh at_ Democritus himselfe, and but reading one piece of this Comick variety, finde thy exalted fancie in Elizium; And when thou art sick of this cure, (for the excesse of delight may too much dilate thy soule,) thou shalt meete almost in every leafe a soft purling passion or spring of sorrow so powerfully wrought high by the teares of innocence, and wronged Lovers, _it shall persuade thy eyes to weepe into the streame, and yet smile when they contribute to their owne ruines.

Infinitely more might be said of these rare Copies, but let the ingenuous Reader peruse them & he will finde them so able to speake their own worth, that they need not come into the world with a trumpet, since any one of these incomparable pieces well understood will prove a_ Preface to the rest, and if the Reader can fast the best wit ever trod our English Stage, he will be forced himselfe to become a breathing Panegerick _to them all.

Not to detaine or prepare thee longer, be as capritious and sick-brain'd, as ignorance & malice can make thee, here thou art rectified, or be as healthfull as the inward calme of an honest_ Heart, Learning, and Temper can state thy disposition, yet this booke may be thy fortunate concernement _and Companion.

It is not so remote in Time, but very many Gentlemen may remember these Authors & some familiar in their conversation deliver them upon every pleasant occasion so fluent, to talke a Comedy. He must be a bold man that dares undertake to write their Lives. What I have to say is, we have the precious_ Remaines, and as the wisest contemporaries acknowledge they Lived a Miracle, _I am very confident this volume cannot die without one.

What more specially concerne these Authors and their workes is told thee by another hand in the following Epistle of the_ Stationer to the Readers.

Farwell, Reade, and feare not thine owne understanding, this Booke will create a cleare one in thee, and when thou hast considered thy purchase, thou wilt call the price of it a Charity to thy selfe, and at the same time forgive thy friend, and these Authors humble admirer,

JA. SHIRLEY.

The Stationer to the Readers.

Gentlemen, before you engage farther, be pleased to take notice of these Particulars. You have here a New Booke; I can speake it clearely; for of all this large Volume of Comedies and Tragedies, not one, till now, was ever printed before. A Collection of Playes is commonly but a new Impression, the scattered pieces which were printed single, being then onely Republished together: 'Tis otherwise here.

Next, as it is all New, so here is not any thing Spurious or impos'd; I had the Originalls from such as received them from the Authours themselves; by Those, and none other, I publish this Edition.

And as here's nothing but what is genuine and Theirs, so you will finde here are no Omissions; you have not onely All I could get, but All that you must ever expect. For (besides those which were formerly printed) there is not any Piece written by these Authours, either Joyntly or Severally, but what are now publish'd to the World in this Volume. One only Play I must except (for I meane to deale openly) 'tis a COMEDY called the Wilde-goose Chase, which hath beene long lost, and I feare irrecoverable; for a Person of Quality borrowed it from the Actours many yeares since, and (by the negligence of a Servant) it was never return'd; therefore now I put up this Si quis, that whosoever hereafter happily meetes with it, shall be thankfully satisfied if he please to send it home.

Some Playes (you know) written by these Authors were heretofore Printed: I thought not convenient to mixe them with this Volume, which of it selfe is entirely New. And indeed it would have rendred the Booke so Voluminous, that Ladies and Gentlewomen would have found it scarce manageable, who in Workes of this nature must first be remembred. Besides, I considered those former Pieces had been so long printed and re-printed, that many Gentlemen were already furnished; and I would have none say, they pay twice for the same Booke.

One thing I must answer before it bee objected; 'tis this: When these Comedies and Tragedies were presented on the Stage, the Actours omitted some Scenes and Passages (with the Authour's consent) as occasion led them; and when private friends desir'd a Copy, they then (and justly too) transcribed what they Acted. But now you have both All that was Acted, and all that was not; even the perfect full Originalls without the least mutilation; So that were the Authours living, (and sure they can never dye) they themselves would challenge neither more nor lesse then what is here published; this Volume being now so compleate and finish'd, that the Reader must expect no future Alterations.

For literall Errours committed by the Printer, 'tis the fashion to aske pardon, and as much in fashion to take no notice of him that asks it; but in this also I have done my endeavour. 'Twere vaine to mention the Chargeablenesse of this Work; for those who own'd the Manuscripts, too well knew their value to make a cheap estimate of any of these Pieces, and though another joyn'd with me in the Purchase and Printing, yet the Care & Pains was wholly mine, which I found to be more then you'l easily imagine, unlesse you knew into how many hands the Originalls were dispersed. They are all now happily met in this Book, having escaped these Publike Troubles, free and unmangled. Heretofore when Gentlemen desired but a Copy of any of these Playes, the meanest piece here (if any may be called Meane where every one is Best) cost them more then foure times the price you pay for the whole Volume.

I should scarce have adventured in these slippery times on such a work as this, if knowing persons had not generally assured mee that these Authors were the most unquestionable Wits this Kingdome hath afforded. Mr. Beaumont was ever acknowledged a man of a most strong and searching braine; and (his yeares considered) the most Judicious Wit these later Ages have produced; he dyed young, for (which was an invaluable losse to this Nation) he left the world when hee was not full thirty yeares old. Mr. Fletcher survived, and lived till almost fifty; whereof the World now enjoyes the benefit. It was once in my thoughts to have Printed Mr. Fletcher's workes by themselves, because single & alone he would make a Just Volume: But since never parted while they lived, I conceived it not equitable to seperate their ashes.

It becomes not me to say (though it be a knowne Truth) that these Authors had not only High unexpressible gifts of Nature, but also excellent acquired Parts, being furnished with Arts and Sciences by that liberall education they had at the University, which sure is the best place to make a great Wit understand it selfe; this their workes will soone make evident. I was very ambitious to have got Mr. Beaumonts picture; but could not possibly, though I spared no enquirie in those Noble Families whence he was descended, as also among those Gentlemen that were his acquaintance when he was of the Inner Temple: the best Pictures and those most like him you'll finde in this Volume. This figure of Mr. Fletcher was cut by severall Originall Pieces, which his friends lent me, but withall they tell me, that his unimitable Soule did shine through his countenance in such Ayre and Spirit, that the Painters confessed, it was not easie to expresse him: As much as could be, you have here, and the Graver hath done his part. What ever I have scene of Mr. Fletchers owne hand, is free from interlining; and his friends affirme he never writ any one thing twice: it seemes he had that rare felicity to prepare and perfect all first in his owne braine; to shape and attire his Notions, to adde or loppe off, before he committed one word to writing, and never touched pen till all was to stand as firme and immutable as if ingraven in Brasse or Marble. But I keepe you too long from those friends of his whom 'tis fitter for you to read; only accept of the honest endeavours of

One that is a Servant to you all

 HUMPHREY MOSELEY.
At the Princes Armes in
 St Pauls Church-yard. Feb._ 14th 1646.

To the Stationer.

  Tell the sad World that now the lab'ring Presse
  Has brought forth safe a Child of happinesse,
  The Frontis-piece will satisfie the wise
  And good so well, they will not grudge the price.
    'Tis not all Kingdomes joyn'd in one could buy
  (If priz'd aright) so true a Library
  Of man: where we the characters may finde
  Of ev'ry Nobler and each baser minde.
  Desert has here reward in one good line
  For all it lost, for all it might repine:
  Vile and ignobler things are open laid,
  The truth of their false colours are displayed:
  You'l say the Poet's both best Judge and Priest,
  No guilty soule abides so sharp a test
    As their smooth Pen; for what these rare men writ
    Commands the World, both Honesty and Wit.

GRANDISON.

IN MEMORY OF Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.

  Me thought our Fletcher weary of this croud,
  Wherein so few have witt, yet all are loud,
  Unto Elyzium fled, where he alone
  Might his own witt admire and ours bemoane;
  But soone upon those Flowry Bankes, a throng
  Worthy of those even numbers which he sung,
  Appeared, and though those Ancient Laureates strive
  When dead themselves, whose raptures should survive,
  For his Temples all their owne bayes allowes,
  Not sham'd to see him crown'd with naked browes;
  Homer his beautifull Achilles nam'd,
  Urging his braine with Joves might well be fam'd,
  Since it brought forth one full of beauties charmes,
  As was his Pallas, and as bold in Armes; [-King and no King.-]
  But when he the brave Arbases saw, one
  That saved his peoples dangers by his own,
  And saw Tigranes by his hand undon
  Without the helpe of any Mirmydon,
  He then confess'd when next hee'd Hector slay,
  That he must borrow him from Fletchers Play;
  This might have beene the shame, for which he bid
  His Iliades in a Nut-shell should be hid:
  Virgill of his Æneas next begun,
  Whose God-like forme and tongue so soone had wonne;
  That Queene of Carthage and of beauty too,
  Two powers the whole world else were slaves unto,
  Urging that Prince for to repaire his faulte
  On earth, boldly in hell his Mistresse sought; [-The Maides Tragedy.-]
  But when he Amintor saw revenge that wrong,
  For which the sad Aspasia sigh'd so long,
  Upon himselfe, to shades hasting away,
  Not for to make a visit but to stay;
  He then did modestly confesse how farr
  Fletcher out-did him in a Charactar.
  Now lastly for a refuge, Virgill shewes
  The lines where Corydon Alexis woes;
  But those in opposition quickly met [-The faithfull Shepherdesse.-]
  The smooth tongu'd Perigot and Amoret:
  A paire whom doubtlesse had the others seene,
  They from their owne loves had Apostates beene;
  Thus Fletcher did the fam'd laureat exceed,
  Both when his Trumpet sounded and his reed;
  Now if the Ancients yeeld that heretofore,
  None worthyer then those ere Laurell wore;
  The least our age can say now thou art gon,
  Is that there never will be such a one:
And since t' expresse thy worth, our rimes too narrow be,
To help it wee'l be ample in our prophesie.

H. HOWARD.

On Mr John Fletcher, and his Workes, never before published.

  To flatter living fooles is easie slight:
  But hard, to do the living-dead men right.
  To praise a Landed Lord, is gainfull art:
  But thanklesse to pay Tribute to desert.
  This should have been my taske: I had intent
  To bring my rubbish to thy monument,
  To stop some crannies there, but that I found
  No need of least repaire; all firme and sound.
  Thy well-built fame doth still it selfe advance
  Above the Worlds mad zeale and ignorance,
  Though thou dyedst not possest of that same pelfe
  (Which Nobler soules call durt,) the City wealth:
  Yet thou hast left unto the times so great
  A Legacy, a Treasure so compleat,
  That 'twill be hard I feare to prove thy Will:
  Men will be wrangling, and in doubting still
  How so vast summes of wit were left behind,
  And yet nor debts nor sharers they can finde.
  'Twas the kind providence of fate, to lock
  Some of this Treasure up; and keep a stock
  For a reserve untill these sullen daies:
  When scorn, and want, and danger, are the Baies
  That Crown the head of merit. But now he
  Who in thy Will hath part, is rich and free.
  But there's a Caveat enter'd by command,
  None should pretend, but those can understand.

HENRY MODY, Baronet.

ON

Mr Fletchers Works.

  Though Poets have a licence which they use
  As th' ancient priviledge of their free Muse;
  Yet whether this be leave enough for me
  To write, great Bard, an Eulogie for thee:
  Or whether to commend thy Worke, will stand
  Both with the Lawes of Verse and of the Land,
  Were to put doubts might raise a discontent
  Between the Muses and the ——
  I'le none of that. There's desperate wits that be
  (As their immortall Lawrell) Thunder-free;
  Whose personall vertues, 'bove the Lawes of Fate,
  Supply the roome of personall estate:
  And thus enfranchis'd, safely may rehearse,
  Rapt in a lofty straine, [their] own neck-verse.
  For he that gives the Bayes to thee, must then
  First take it from the Militarie Men;
  He must untriumph conquests, bid 'em stand,
  Question the strength of their victorious hand.
  He must act new things, or go neer the sin,
  Reader, as neer as you and I have been:
  He must be that, which He that tryes will swear
  I[t] is not good being so another Yeare.
    And now that thy great name I've brought to [this],
  To do it honour is to do amisse,
  What's to be done to those, that shall refuse
  To celebrate, great Soule, thy noble Muse?
  Shall the poore State of all those wandring things,
  Thy Stage once rais'd to Emperors and Kings?
  Shall rigid forfeitures (that reach our Heires)
  Of things that only fill with cares and feares?
  Shall the privation of a friendlesse life,
  Made up of contradictions and strife?
  Shall He be entitie, would antedate
  His own poore name, and thine annihilate?
  Shall these be judgements great enough for one
  That dares not write thee an Encomion?
    Then where am I? but now I've thought upon't,
  I'le prayse thee more then all have ventur'd on't.
  I'le take thy noble Work (and like the trade
  Where for a heap of Salt pure Gold is layd)
  I'le lay thy Volume, that Huge Tome of wit,
  About in Ladies Closets, where they sit
  Enthron'd in their own wills; and if she bee
  A Laick sister, shee'l straight flie to thee:
  But if a holy Habit shee have on,
  Or be some Novice, shee'l scarce looks upon
  Thy Lines at first; but watch Her then a while,
  And you shall see Her steale a gentle smile
  Upon thy Title, put thee neerer yet,
  Breath on thy Lines a whisper, and then set
  Her voyce up to the measures; then begin
  To blesse the houre, and happy state shee's in.
  Now shee layes by her Characters, and lookes
  With a stern eye on all her pretty Bookes.
  Shee's now thy Voteresse, and the just Crowne
  She brings thee with it, is worth half the Towne.
    I'le send thee to the Army, they that fight
  Will read thy tragedies with some delight,
  Be all thy Reformadoes, fancy scars,
  And pay too, in thy speculative wars.
    I'le send thy Comick scenes to some of those
  That for a great while have plaid fast and loose;
  New universalists, by changing shapes,
  Have made with wit and fortune faire escapes.
    Then shall the Countrie that poor Tennis-ball
  Of angry fate, receive thy Pastorall,
  And from it learn those melancholy straines
  Fed the afflicted soules of Primitive swaines.
  Thus the whole World to reverence will flock
  Thy Tragick Buskin and thy Comick Stock;
  And winged fame unto posterity
  Transmit but onely two, this Age, and Thee.

                                                     THOMAS PEYTON.
                                           Agricola Anglo-Cantianus.

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.

Roger L'Estrange.

COMMENDATORY

On the Dramatick Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

  Wonder! who's here? Fletcher, long buried
  Reviv'd? Tis he! hee's risen from the Dead.
  His winding sheet put off, walks above ground,
  Shakes off his Fetters, and is better bound.
  And may he not, if rightly understood,
  Prove Playes are lawfull? he hath made them Good.
  Is any Lover Mad? see here Loves Cure;
  Unmarried? to a Wife he may be sure
  A rare one, For a Moneth; if she displease,
  The Spanish Curate gives a Writ of ease.
  Enquire The Custome of the Country, then
  Shall the French Lawyer set you free againe.
  If the two Faire Maids take it wondrous ill,
  (One of the Inne, the other of the Mill,)
  That th' Lovers Progresse stopt, and they defam'd;
  Here's that makes Women Pleas'd, and Tamer tamd.
  But who then playes the Coxcombe, or will trie
  His Wit at severall Weapons, or else die?
  Nice Valour and he doubts not to engage
  The Noble Gentl'man, in Loves Pilgrimage,
  To take revenge on the False One, and run
  The Honest mans Fortune, to be undone
  Like Knight of Malta, or else Captaine be
  Or th' Humerous Lieutenant: goe to Sea
  (A Voyage for to starve) hee's very loath,
  Till we are all at peace, to sweare an Oath,
  That then the Loyall Subject may have leave
  To lye from Beggers Bush, and undeceive
  The Creditor, discharge his debts; Why so,
  Since we can't pay to Fletcher what we owe.
  Oh could his Prophetesse but tell one Chance,
  When that the Pilgrimes shall returne from France.
  And once more make this Kingdome, as of late,
  The Island Princesse, and we celebrate
  A Double Marriage; every one to bring
  To Fletchers memory his offering.
  That thus at last unsequesters the Stage,
  Brings backe the Silver, and the Golden Age.

Robert Gardiner.

To the Manes of the celebrated Poets and Fellow-writers, Francis
Beaumont and John Fletcher, upon the Printing of their excellent
Dramatick Poems.

  Disdaine not Gentle Shades, the lowly praise
  Which here I tender your immortall Bayes.
  Call it not folly, but my zeale, that I
  Strive to eternize you that cannot dye.
  And though no Language rightly can commend
  What you have writ, save what your selves have penn'd;
  Yet let me wonder at those curious straines
  (The rich Conceptions of your twin-like Braines)
  Which drew the Gods attention; who admir'd
  To see our English Stage by you inspir'd.
  Whose chiming Muses never fail'd to sing
  A Soule-affecting Musicke; ravishing
  Both Eare and Intellect, while you do each
  Contend with other who shall highest reach
  In rare Invention; Conflicts that beget
  New strange delight, to see two Fancies met,
  That could receive no foile: two wits in growth
  So just, as had one Soule informed both.
  Thence (Learned Fletcher) sung the muse alone,
  As both had done before, thy Beaumont gone.
  In whom, as thou, had he outlived, so he
  (Snatch'd first away) survived still in thee.
    What though distempers of the present Age
  Have banish'd your smooth numbers from the Stage?
  You shall be gainers by't; it shall confer
  To th' making the vast world your Theater.
  The Presse shall give to ev'ry man his part,
  And we will all be Actors; learne by heart
  Those Tragick Scenes and Comicke Straines you writ,
  Un-imitable both for Art and Wit;
  And at each Exit, as your Fancies rise,
  Our hands shall clap deserved Plaudities.

John Web.

To the desert of the Author in his most Ingenious Pieces.

  Thou art above their Censure, whose darke Spirits
  Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits;
  That have no soule, nor reason to their will,
  But rime as ragged, as a Ganders Quill:
  Where Pride blowes up the Error, and transfers
  Their zeale in Tempests, that so wid'ly errs.
  Like heat and Ayre comprest, their blind desires
  Mixe with their ends, as raging winds with fires.
  Whose Ignorance and Passions, weare an eye
  Squint to all parts of true Humanity.
  All is Apocripha suits not their vaine:
  For wit, oh fye! and Learning too; prophane!
  But Fletcher hath done Miracles by wit,
  And one Line of his may convert them yet.
  Tempt them into the State of knowledge, and
  Happinesse to read and understand.
  The way is strow'd with Lawrell, and ev'ry Muse
  Brings Incense to our Fletcher: whose Scenes infuse
  Such noble kindlings from her pregnant fire,
  As charmes her Criticke Poets in desire,
  And who doth read him, that parts lesse indu'd,
  Then with some heat of wit or Gratitude.
  Some crowd to touch the Relique of his Bayes,
  Some to cry up their owne wit in his praise,
  And thinke they engage it by Comparatives,
  When from himselfe, himselfe he best derives.
  Let Shakespeare, Chapman, and applauded Ben,
  Weare the Eternall merit of their Pen,
  Here I am love-sicke: and were I to chuse,
  A Mistris corrivall 'tis Fletcher's Muse.

George Buck.

On Mr BEAUMONT.

(Written thirty years since, presently after his death.)

  Beaumont lyes here; and where now shall we have
  A Muse like his to sigh upon his grave?
  Ah! none to weepe this with a worthy teare,
  But he that cannot, Beaumont, that lies here.
  Who now shall pay thy Tombe with such a Verse
  As thou that Ladies didst, faire Rutlands Herse?
  A Monument that will then lasting be,
  When all her Marble is more dust than she.
  In thee all's lost: a sudden dearth and want
  Hath seiz'd on Wit, good Epitaphs are scant;
  We dare not write thy Elegie, whilst each feares
  He nere shall match that coppy of thy teares.
  Scarce in an Age a Poet, and yet he
  Scarce lives the third part of his age to see,
  But quickly taken off and only known,
  Is in a minute shut as soone as showne.
  Why should weake Nature tire her selfe in vaine
  In such a peice, to dash it straight againe?
  Why should she take such worke beyond her skill,
  Which when she cannot perfect, she must kill?
  Alas, what is't to temper slime or mire?
  But Nature's puzled when she workes in fire:
  Great Braines (like brightest glasse) crack straight, while those
  Of Stone or Wood hold out, and feare not blowes.
  And wee their Ancient hoary heads can see
  Whose Wit was never their mortality:
  Beaumont dies young, so Sidney did before,
  There was not Poetry he could live to more,
  He could not grow up higher, I scarce know
  If th' art it selfe unto that pitch could grow,
  Were't not in thee that hadst arriv'd the hight
  Of all that wit could reach, or Nature might.
  O when I read those excellent things of thine,
  Such Strength, such sweetnesse coucht in every line,
  Such life of Fancy, such high choise of braine,
  Nought of the Vulgar wit or borrowed straine,
  Such Passion, such expressions meet my eye,
  Such Wit untainted with obscenity,
  And these so unaffectedly exprest,
  All in a language purely flowing drest,
  And all so borne within thy selfe, thine owne,
  So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon.
  I grieve not now that old Menanders veine
  Is ruin'd to survive in thee againe;
  Such in his time was he of the same peece,
  The smooth, even naturall Wit, and Love of Greece.
  Those few sententious fragments shew more worth,
  Then all the Poets Athens ere brought forth;
  And I am sorry we have lost those houres
  On them, whose quicknesse comes far short of ours,
  And dwell not more on thee, whose every Page
  May be a patterne for their Scene and Stage.
  I will not yeeld thy Workes so meane a Prayse;
  More pure, more chaste, more sainted then are Playes,
  Nor with that dull supinenesse to be read,
  To passe a fire, or laugh an houre in bed.
  How doe the Muses suffer every where,
  Taken in such mouthes censure, in such eares,
  That twixt a whiffe, a Line or two rehearse,
  And with their Rheume together spaule a Verse?
  This all a Poems leisure after Play,
  Drinke or Tabacco, it may keep the Day.
  Whilst even their very idlenesse they thinke
  Is lost in these, that lose their time in drinkt.
  Pity then dull we, we that better know,
  Will a more serious houre on thee bestow,
  Why should not Beaumont in the Morning please,
  As well as Plautus, Aristophanes?
  Who if my Pen may as my thoughts be free,
  Were scurrill Wits and Buffons both to Thee;
  Yet these our Learned of severest brow
  Will deigne to looke on, and to note them too,
  That will defie our owne, tis English stuffe,
  And th' Author is not rotten long enough.
  Alas what flegme are they, compared to thee,
  In thy Philaster, and Maids-Tragedy?
  Where's such an humour as thy Bessus? pray
  Let them put all their Thrasoes in one Play,
  He shall out-bid them; their conceit was poore,
  All in a Circle of a Bawd or Whore;
  A cozning dance, take the foole away,
  And not a good jest extant in a Play.
  Yet these are Wits, because they'r old, and now
  Being Greeke and Latine, they are Learning too:
  But those their owne Times were content t' allow
  A thirsty fame, and thine is lowest now.
  But thou shalt live, and when thy Name is growne
  Six Ages older, shall be better knowne,
  When th' art of Chaucers standing in the Tombe,
  Thou shalt not share, but take up all his roome.