engraved bust of Fletcher 
POETARJM JNGENJOSJSSJMVS JOANNES FLETCHERUS ANGLVS, EPJSCOPJ LOND: FJLJus  
TRAGOEDIA COMOEDIA  
Obyt 1625 Aetat: 49  
Felicis avi ac Praesulis Natus; comes  
Beaumontio; sic, quippe Parnassus, biceps;  
FLETCHERUS unam in Pyramida furcas agens.  
Struxit chorum plùs simplicem Vates Duplex;  
Plùs duplicem plus: nec ullum transtulit;  
Nec transferendus: Dramatum aeterni sales,  
Anglo Theatro, Oebi, Sibi, superstites.  
FLETCHERE, facies absque vultu pingitur;  
Quantus! vel umbram circuit nemo tuam.  J. Berkenhead Guliel 'Marshall Fecit   

COMEDIES AND TRAGEDIES  
Written by FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER Gentlemen.  
Never printed before, And now published by the Authors Original Copies.  Si quid habent veri Vatum praesagia, vivam. 
LONDON, Printed for Humphrey Robinson, at the three Pigeons, and for Humphrey Moseley at the PRINCE's Arms in St Paul's Churchyard. 1647.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP Earl of Pembroke and Mountgomery: Baron Herbert of Cardiff 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 Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council: And our Singular Good Lord.  
MY LORD,  
THere is none among all the Names of Honour, that hath more encouraged the Legitimate Muses of this latter Age, then that which is owing to your Family; whose Coronet shines bright with the native luster of its own Jewels, which with the access of some Beams of Sidney, twisted with their Flame presents a Constellation, from whose Influence all good may be still expected upon Wit and Learning.  
At this Truth we rejoice, but yet aloof, and in our own valley, for we dare not approach with any capacity in ourselves to apply your Smile, since we have only preserved as trusties to the Ashes of the Authors, what we exhibit to your Honour, it being no more our own, than those Imperial Crowns and Garlands were the Soldiers, 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 quality, and so fortunately aspired to choose your Honour, joined 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 Lordship's most constant and diffusive Goodness, from which, we did for many calm years derive a subsistence to ourselves, and Protection to the Scene (now withered, and condemned, as we fear, to a long Winter and sterility) we have presumed to offer to your Self, what before was never printed of these Authors.  
Had they been less than all the Treasure we had contracted in the whole Age of Poesy (some few Poems of their own excepted, which already published, command their entertainment, with all lovers of Art and Language) or were they not, the most justly admired, and beloved Pieces of Wit and the World, we should have taught ourselves a less Ambition.  
Be pleased to accept this humble tender of our duties, and till we fail in our obedience to all your Commands, vouchsafe, we may be known by the Cognizance and Character of  
MY LORD, Your honour's most bounden   

TO THE READER.  
POETRY is the Child of Nature, which regulated and made beautiful by Art, presenteth the most Harmonious of all other compositions; among which (if we rightly consider) the Dramatical is the most absolute, in regard of those transcendent Abilities, which should wait upon the Composer; who must have more than the instruction of Libraries which of itself is but a cold contemplative knowledge) there being required in him a Soul miraculously knowing, and conversing with all mankind, enabling him to express not only the Phlegm and folly of thick-skinned men, but the strength and maturity of the wise, the Air and insinuations of the Court, the discipline and Resolution of the Soldier, the Virtues and passions of every noble condition, nay the counsels and characters of the greatest Princes.  
This you will say is a vast comprehension, and hath not happened in many Ages. Be it then remembered to the Glory of our own, that all these are Demonstrative and met in BEAUMONT & FLETCHER, whom but to mention is to throw a cloud 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 Crown and sole Reputation of our own, but the stain 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 Authentic wit that made Blackfriers an Academy, where the three hours' spectacle while Beaumont and Fletcher were presented, were usually of more advantage to the hopeful young Heir, than a costly, dangerous, foreign Travel, with the assistance of a governing monsieur, 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 sourer ways 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 edify. How many passable discoursing dining wits stand yet in good credit upon the bare stock of two or three of these single Scenes.  
And now Reader in this Tragical Age where the Theater hath been so much out-acted, congratulate thy own happiness that in this silence of the Stage, thou hast a liberty to read these inimitable Plays, to dwell and converse in these immortal Groves, which were only showed our Fathers in a conjuring glass, as suddenly removed as represented, the Landscrap is now brought home by this optic, and the Press thought too pregnant before shall be now looked upon as greatest Benefactor to Englishmen, that must acknowledge all the felicity of wit and words to this Derivation.  
You may here find passions raised to that excellent pitch and by such insinuating degrees that you shall not choose but consent, & go along with them, finding yourself at last grown insensibly the very same person you read, and then stand admiring the subtle Tracks of your engagement. Fall on a Scene of love and you will never believe the writers could have the least room left in their souls for another passion, peruse a Scene of manly Rage, and you would swear they cannot be expressed by the same hands, but both are so excellently wrought, you must confess none, but the same hands, could work them.  
Would thy Melancholy have a cure? thou shalt laugh at Democritus himself, and but reading one piece of this Comic variety, find thy exalted fancy in Elysium; And when thou art sick of this cure, (for the excess of delight may too much dilate thy soul) thou shalt meet almost in every leaf a soft purling passion or spring of sorrow so powerfully wrought high by the tears of innocence, and wronged Lovers, it shall persuade thy eyes to weep into the stream, and yet smile when they contribute to their own ruins.  
Infinitely more might be said of these rare Copies, but let the ingenuous Reader peruse them & he will find them so able to speak 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 taste the best wit ever trod our English Stage, he will be forced himself to become a breathing panegyric to them all.  
Not to detain or prepare thee longer, be as capricious and sick-brained, as ignorance & malice can make thee, here thou art rectified, or be as healthful as the inward calm of an honest Heart, Learning, and Temper can state thy disposition, yet this book may be thy fortunate concernment 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 talk 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 Remains, and as the wisest contemporaries acknowledge they Lived a Miracle, I am very confident this volume cannot die without one.  
What more specially concern these Authors and their works is told thee by another hand in the following Epistle of the Stationer to the Readers.  
Farewell, Read, and fear not thine own understanding, this Book will create a clear one in thee, and when thou hast considered thy purchase, thou wilt call the price of it a Charity to thyself, 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 Book; I can speak it clearly; for of all this large Volume of Comedies and Tragedies, not one, till now, was ever printed before. A Collection of Plays is commonly but a new Impression, the scattered pieces which were printed single, being then only Republished together: 'Tis otherwise here.  
Next, as it is all New, so here is not any thing Spurious or imposed; I had the Originals from such as received them from the Authors themselves; by Those, and none other, I publish this Edition.  
And as here's nothing but what is genuine and Theirs, so you will find here are no Omissions; you have not only 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 Authors, either Jointly or Severally, but what are now published to the World in this Volume. One only Play I must except (for I mean to deal openly) 'tis a COMEDY called the wild-goose Chase, which hath been long lost, and I fear irrecoverable; for a Person of Quality borrowed it from the Actors many years since, and (by the negligence of a Servant) it was never returned; therefore now I put up this Si quis, that whosoever hereafter happily meets with it, shall be thankfully satisfied if he please to send it home.  
Some Plays (you know) written by these Authors were heretofore Printed: I thought not convenient to mix them with this Volume, which of itself is entirely New. And indeed it would have rendered the Book so Voluminous, that Ladies and Gentlewomen would have found it scarce manageable, who in Works of this nature must first be remembered. Besides, I considered those former Pieces had been so long printed and reprinted, that many Gentlemen were already furnished; and I would have none say, they pay twice for the same Book.  
One thing I must answer before it be objected; 'tis this: When these Comedies and Tragedies were presented on the Stage, the Actors omitted some Scenes and Passages (with the Author's consent) as occasion led them; and when private friends desired 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 Originals without the least mutilation; So that were the Authors living, (and sure they can never die) they themselves would challenge neither more nor less than what is here published; this Volume being now so complete and finished, that the Reader must expect no future Alterations.  
For literal Errors committed by the Printer, 'tis the fashion to ask pardon, and as much in fashion to take no notice of him that asks it; but in this also I have done my endeavour. 'T were vain to mention the Chargeableness of this Work; for those who owned the Manuscripts, too well knew their value to make a cheap estimate of any of these Pieces, and though another joined with me in the Purchase and Printing, yet the Care & Pains was wholly mine, which I found to be more than you'll easily imagine, unless you knew into how many hands the Originals were dispersed. They are all now happily met in this Book, having escaped these Public Troubles, free and unmangled. Heretofore when Gentlemen desired but a Copy of any of these Plays, the meanest piece here (if any may be called Mean where every one is Best) cost them more than four 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 me that these Authors were the most unquestionable Wits this Kingdom hath afforded. Mr. Beaumont was ever acknowledged a man of a most strong and searching brain; and (his years considered) the most Judicious Wit these later Ages have produced; he died young, for (which was an invaluable loss to this Nation) he left the world when he was not full thirty years old. Mr. Fletcher survived, and lived till almost fifty; whereof the World now enjoys the benefit. It was once in my thoughts to have Printed Mr. Fletcher's works by themselves, because single & alone he would make a Just Volume: But since never parted while they lived, I conceived it not equitable to separate their ashes.  
It becomes not me to say (though it be a known 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 liberal education they had at the University, which sure is the best place to make a great Wit understand itself; this their works will soon make evident. I was very ambitious to have got Mr. Beaumont's picture; but could not possibly, though I spared no enquiry 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 find in this Volume. This figure of Mr. Fletcher was out by several Original Pieces, which his friends lent me, but withal they tell me, that his unimitable Soul did shine through his countenance in such Air and Spirit, that the Painters confessed it, was not easy to express him: As much as could be, you have here, and the Graver hath done his part. whatever I have seen of Mr. Fletcher's own hand, is free from interlining; and his friends affirm he never writ any one thing twice: it seems he had that rare felicity to prepare and perfect all first in his own brain; to shape and attire his Notions, to add or lop off, before he committed one word to writing, and never touched pen till all was to stand as firm and immutable as if engraven in Brass or Marble. But I keep 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 PRINCE's Arms in St Paul's Churchyard. Feb. 14th 1646.   

To the Stationer.  
TEll the sad World that now the labouring Press  
H'as brought forth safe a Child of happiness,  
The Frontispiece will satisfy the wise  
And good so well, they will not grudge the price.  
'Tis not all Kingdoms joined in one could buy  
(If prized aright) so true a Library  
Of man: where we the characters may find  
Of every Nobler and each baser mind.  
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'll say the Poet's both best Judge and Priest,  
No guilty soul 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.  
methought our Fletcher weary of this crowd,  
Wherein so few have wit, yet all are loud,  
Unto Elysium fled, where he alone  
Might his own wit admire and ours bemoan;  
But soon upon those Flowery Banks, 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 own bays allows,  
Not shamed to see him crowned with naked brows;  
Homer his beautiful Achilles named,  
Urging his brain with Jove's might well be famed,  
Since it brought forth one full of beauty's charms,  
As was his Pallas, and as bold in Arms;  

King and no King.  But when he the brave Arbases saw, one  
That saved his people's dangers by his own,  
And saw Tigranes by his hand undone  
Without the help of any Myrmidon,  
He then confessed when next he'd Hector slay,  
That he must borrow him from Fletcher's Play;  
This might have been the shame, for which he bid  
His Iliades in a Nutshell should be hid:  
Virgil of his Aeneas next begun,  
Whose Godlike form and tongue so soon had won;  
That Queen of Carthage and of beauty too,  
Two powers the whole world else were slaves unto,  
Urging that Prince for to repair his fault  
On earth, boldly in hell his Mistress sought;  

The maids' Tragedy.  But when he Amintor saw revenge that wrong,  
For which the sad Aspasia sighed so long,  
Upon himself, to shades hasting away,  
Not for to make a visit but to stay;  
He then did modestly confess how far  
Fletcher outdid him in a Character.  
Now lastly for a refuge, Virgil shows  
The lines where Corydon Alexis woes;  
But those in opposition quickly met  

The faithful Shepherdess.  The smooth tongued Perigot and Amoret:  
A pair whom doubtless had the others seen,  
They from their own loves had Apostates been;  
Thus Fletcher did the famed laureate exceed,  
Both when his Trumpet sounded and his reed;  
Now if the Ancients yield that heretofore,  
None worthier than those ere Laurel wore;  
The least our age can say now thou art gone,  
Is that there never will be such a one:  
And since t'express thy worth, our rhymes too narrow be,  
To help it we'll be ample in our prophecy.  
H. HOWARD.   

On Mr John Fletcher, and his Works, never before published.  
TO flatter living fools is easy slight:  
But hard, to do the living-dead men right.  
To praise a Landed Lord, is gainful art:  
But thankless to pay Tribute to desert.  
This should have been my task: I had intent  
To bring my rubbish to thy monument,  
To stop some crannies there, but that I found  
No need of least repair; all firm and sound.  
Thy well-built fame doth still itself advance  
Above the World's mad zeal and ignorance,  
Though thou died'st not possessed of that same pelf  
(Which Nobler souls call dirt,) the City wealth:  
Yet thou hast left unto the times so great  
A Legacy, a Treasure so complete,  
That 'twill be hard I fear to prove thy Will:  
Men will be wrangling, and in doubting still  
How so vast sums of wit were left behind,  
And yet nor debts nor sharers they can find.  
'Twas the kind providence of fate, to lock  
Some of this Treasure up; and keep a stock  
For a reserve until these sullen days:  
When scorn, and want, and danger, are the Bays  
That Crown the head of merit. But now he  
Who in thy Will hath part, is rich and free.  
But there's a Caveat entered by command,  
None should pretend, but those can understand.  
HENRY MODY, Baronet.   

ON Mr Fletcher's Works.  

THough Poets have a licence which they use  
As th'ancient privilege of their free Muse;  
Yet whether this be leave enough for me  
To write, great Bard, an Eulogy for thee:  
Or whether to commend thy Work, will stand  
Both with the Laws of Verse and of the Land,  
Were to put doubts might raise a discontent  
Between the Muses and the—  
I'll none of that. There's desperate wits that be  
(As their immortal Laurel) Thunder-free;  
Whose personal virtues, 'bove the Laws of Fate,  
Supply the room of personal estate:  
And thus enfranchised, safely may rehearse,  
Rapt in a lofty strain, theirs own neck-verse.  
For he that gives the bays to thee, must then  
First take it from the Military Men;  
He must untriumph conquests, bid 'em stand,  
Question the strength of their victorious hand.  
He must act new things, or go near the sin,  
Reader, as near as you and I have been:  
He must be that, which He that tries will swear  
Ii is not good being so another Year.   

And now that thy great name I've brought to this,  
To do it honour is to do amiss,  
What's to be done to those, that shall refuse  
To celebrate, great Soul, thy noble Muse?  
Shall the poor State of all those wandering things,  
Thy Stage once raised to Emperors and Kings?  
Shall rigid forfeitures (that reach our Heirs)  
Of things that only fill with cares and fears?  
Shall the privation of a friendless life,  
Made up of contradictions and strife?  
Shall He be entity, would antedate  
His own poor 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'll praise thee more than all have ventured on't.  
I'll take thy noble Work (and like the trade  
Where for a heap of Salt pure Gold is laid)  
I'll lay thy Volume, that Huge Tome of wit,  
About in ladies' Closets, where they sit  
Enthroned in their own wills; and if she be  
A Laic sister, she'll straight fly to thee:  
But if a holy Habit she have on,  
Or be some Novice, she'll scarce look upon  
Thy Lines at first; but watch Her then a while,  
And you shall see Her steal a gentle smile  
Upon thy Title, put thee nearer yet,  
Breath on thy Lines a whisper, and then set  
Her voice up to the measures; then begin  
To bless the hour, and happy state she's in.  
Now she lays by her Characters, and looks  
With a stern eye on all her pretty Books.  
she's now thy votaress, and the just Crown  
She brings thee with it, is worth half the Town.   

I'll 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'll send thy Comic scenes to some of those  
That for a great while have played fast and loose;  
New universalists, by changing shapes,  
Have made with wit and fortune fair escapes.   

Then shall the Country that poor Tennis-ball  
Of angry fate, receive thy Pastoral,  
And from it learn those melancholy strains  
Fed the afflicted souls of Primitive swains.  
Thus the whole World to reverence will flock  
Thy Tragic Buskin and thy Comic Stock:  
And winged fame unto posterity  
Transmit but only two, this Age, and Thee.   
THOMAS PEYTON. Agricola Anglo-Cantianus.   

ON THE Deceased Author, Mr John Fletcher, his Plays; and especially, The Mad Lover.  
While his well organed body doth retreat,  
To its first matter, and the formal heat  
Triumphant sits in judgement to approve  
Pieces above our Candour and our love:  
Such as dare boldly venture to appear  
Unto the curious eye, and Critic ear:  
Lo the Mad Lover in these various times  
Is pressed to life, t'accuse us of our crimes.  
While Fletcher lived, who equal to him writ  
Such lasting Monuments of natural wit?  
Others might draw their lines with sweat, like those  
That (with much pains) a Garrison enclose;  
Whilst his sweet fluent vein did gently run  
As uncontrolled, and smoothly as the Sun.  
After his death our Theatres did make  
Him in his own unequalled Language speak:  
And now when all the Muses out of their  
Approved modesty silent appear,  
This Play of Fletcher's braves the envious light  
As wonder of our ears once, now our sight.  
Three and fourfold blessed Poet, who the Lives  
Of Poets, and of Theatres survives!  
A Groom, or Ostler of some wit may bring  
His Pegasus to the Castalian spring;  
Boast he a race o'er the Pharsalian plain,  
Or happy Tempe valley dares maintain:  
Brag at one leap upon the double Cliff  
(Were it as high as monstrous Tennariffe)  
Of far-renowned Parnassus he will get,  
And there (t' amaze the World) confirm his seat:  
When our admired Fletcher vaunts not aught,  
And slighted every thing he writ as nought:  
While all our English wondering world (in's cause)  
Made this great City echo with applause.  
Read him therefore all that can read, and those  
That cannot learn, if you're not learning's foes,  
And wilfully resolved to refuse  
The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.  
From thy great constellation (noble Soul)  
Look on this Kingdom, suffer not the whole  
Spirit of Poesy retire to Heaven,  
But make us entertain what thou hast given.  
Earthquakes and Thunder Diapasons make  
The Sea's vast roar, and irrestistless shake  
Of horrid winds, a sympathy compose;  
So in these things there's music in the close:  
And though they seem great Discords in our ears,  
They are not so to them above the Spheres.  
Granting these Music, how much sweet's that  
Mnemosyne's daughter's voices do create?  
Since Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Air consent  
To make an Harmony (the Instrument,  
Their own agreeing selves) shall we refuse  
The Music which the Deities do use?  
Troy's ravished Ganymed doth sing to Jove,  
And Phoebus self plays 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 (cloistered in our humane Cells)  
Maintain their parley, Beaumount-Fletcher tells;  
Whose strange unimitable Intercourse  
Transcends all Rules, and flies beyond the force  
Of the most forward souls; all must submit  
until they reach these Mysteries of Wit.  
The Intellectual Language here's expressed,  
Admired in better times, and dares the Test  
Of Ours; for from Wit, Sweetness, Mirth, and Sense,  
This Volume springs a new true Quintessence.  
JO. PETTUS, Knight.   

On the Works of the most excellent Dramatic Poet, Mr. John Fletcher, never before Printed.  

Hail Fletcher, welcome to the world's great Stage;  
For our two hours, we have thee here an age  
In thy whole Works, and may th'Impression call  
The Praetor that presents thy Plays 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, confessed  
When every one is tickled with a jest:  
And that pure Fletcher, able to subdue  
A Melancholy more than Burton knew.  
And though upon the by, to his designs  
The Native may learn English from his lines,  
And th' Alien if he can but construe it,  
May here be made free Denizen of wit.  
But his main end does drooping Virtue raise,  
And crown her beauty with eternal bays;  
In Scenes where she inflames the frozen soul,  
While Vice (her paint washed off) appears so foul;  
She must this Blessed Isle and Europe leave,  
And some new Quadrant of the Globe deceive:  
Or hide her Blushes on the Afrique shore  
Like Marius, but ne'er rise to triumph more;  
That honour is resigned to Fletcher's fame;  
Add to his Trophies, that a poet's name  
(Late grown as odious to our Modern states  
As that of King to Rome) he vindicates  
From black aspersions, cast upon't by those  
Which only are inspired to lie 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 Royal is when Caesar's named.   
ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.   

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

I'll not pronounce how strong and clean 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'll say, thou strik'st our sense so deep,  
At once thou mak'st us Blush, Rejoice, and Weep.  
Great Father johnson bowed himself when he  
(Thou writ'st so nobly) vowed he envied thee.  
Were thy Mardonius armed, there would be more  
Strife for his Sword then all Achilles wore,  
Such wise just Rage, had He been lately tried  
My life on't He had been o'th' Better side,  
And where he found false odds (through Gold or Sloth)  
There brave Mardonius would have be at them Both.   

Behold, here's FLETCHER too! the World ne'er knew  
Two Potent Wits cooperate till You;  
For still your fancies are so woven and knit,  
'Twas FRANCIS-FLETCHER, or JOHN BEAUMONT writ.  
Yet neither borrowed, nor were so put to't  
To call poor Gods and Goddesses to do't;  
Nor made Nine Girls your Muses (you suppose  
Women ne'er write, save Love-Letters in prose)  
But are your own Inspirers, and have made  
Such powerful Scenes, as when they please, invade.  
Your Plot, Sense, Language, All's so pure and fit,  
he's Bold, not Valiant, dare dispute your Wit.   
GEORGE LISLE Knight.   

On Mr. JOHN FLETCHER'S Works.  

SO shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Worms  
Had turned to their own substances and forms,  
Whom Earth to Earth, or fire hath changed to fire,  
we shall behold more than at first entire  
As now we do, to see all thine, thine own  
In this thy muse's Resurrection,  
Whose scattered parts, from thy own Race, more wounds  
Hath suffered, than Actaeon from his hounds;  
Which first their Brains, and then their Bellies fed,  
And from their excrements new Poets bred.  
But now thy Muse enraged from her urn  
Like Ghosts of Murdered bodies doth return  
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 than they give dross to it:  
Who not content like felons to purloin,  
Add Treason to it, and debase thy Coin.   

But whither am I strayed? I need not raise  
Trophies to thee from other Men's dispraise;  
Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruins built,  
Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt  
Of Eastern Kings, who to secure their Reign,  
Must have their Brothers, Sons, and Kindred slain.  
Then was wit's Empire at the fatal height,  
When labouring and sinking with its weight,  
From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprung  
Like petty Princes from the fall of Rome.  
When JOHNSON, SHAKESPEARE, and thyself did sit,  
And swayed in the Triumvirate of wit—  
Yet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow,  
Or what more easy nature did bestow  
On shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full grown  
Their Graces both appear, yet so, that none  
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins  
But mixed like th'Elements, and borne like twins,  
So interweaved, so like, so much the same,  
None this mere Nature, that mere Art can name:  
'Twas this the Ancients meant, Nature and Skill  
Are the two tops of their Parnassus Hill.   
I. DENHAM.   

Upon Mr. John Fletcher's Plays.  
FLETCHER, to thee, we do not only owe  
All these good Plays, but those of others too:  
Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage,  
Credits the last, and entertains this age.  
No Worthies formed 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 Ladies love to see their scorn  
Out done by Thine in what themselves have worn:  
Th'impatient Widow ere the year be done  
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her Gown:  
I never yet the Tragic strain assayed  
Deterred by that inimitable Maid:  
And when I venture at the Comic style  
Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil:  
Thus has thy Muse, at once, improved and marred  
Our Sport in Plays, by rendering it too hard.  
So when a sort of lusty Shepherds throw  
The bar by turns, and none the rest outgo  
So far, but that the best are measuring casts,  
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;  
But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guard  
Step in and toss the Axletree a yard  
Or more beyond the farthest Mark, the rest  
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best.  
EDW. WALLER.   

To FLETCHER Revived.  

HOw have I been Religious? what strange Good  
Has scaped me that I never understood?  
Have I Hell guarded Heresy o'erthrown?  
Healed wounded States? made Kings and Kingdoms one?  
That Fate should be so merciful to me,  
To let me live t'have said I have read thee.  
Fair Star ascend! the joy! the Life! the Light  
Of this tempestuous Age, this dark world's sight!  
Oh from thy Crown of Glory dart one flame  
May strike a sacred Reverence, whilst thy Name  
(Like holy Flamens to their God of Day)  
We bowing, sing; and whilst we praise, we pray.   

Bright Spirit! whose Eternal motion  
Of Wit, like Time, still in itself did run;  
Binding all others in it, and did give  
Commission, how far this, or that shall live:  
Like Destiny of Poems, who, as she  
Signs death to all, herself can never die.   

And now thy purple-robed Tragedy,  
In her embroidered Buskins, calls mine eye,  

Valentinian  Where brave Aëtius we see betrayed,  
T'obey his Death, whom thousand lives obeyed;  
Whilst that the Mighty Fool his Sceptre breaks,  
And through his Generals wounds his own doom speaks,  
Weaving thus richly Valentinian  
The costliest Monarch with the cheapest man.   


The Mad Lover . soldier's may here to their old glories add,  
The Lover love, and be with reason mad:  
Not as of old, Alcides' furious,  
Who wilder than his Bull did tear the house,  
(Hurling his Language with the Canvas stone)  
'Twas thought the Monster roared the sob'rer Tone.   


Tragi-comedies . But ah, when thou thy sorrow didst inspire  
With Passions, black as is her dark attire,  
Virgins as Sufferers have wept to see  
So white a Soul, so red a Cruelty; 
Arcas. Bellario.   
That thou hast grieved, and with unthought redress,  
Dried their wet eyes who now thy mercy bless;  
Yet loath to lose thy watery jewel, when  
joy wiped it off, Laughter straight sprang again.   

Now ruddy cheeked Mirth with Rosy wings, 
Comedies. The Spanish Curate. The Humorous Lieutenant. The Tamer Tamed. The little French Lawyer.   
Fans every brow with gladness, whilst she sings  
Delight to all, and the whole Theatre  
A Festival in Heaven doth appear:  
Nothing but Pleasure, Love, and (like the Morn)  
Each face a general smiling doth adorn.   

Hear ye foul Speakers, that pronounce the Air  
Of Stews and Shores, I will inform you where  
And how to clothe aright your wanton wit,  
Without her nasty Bawd attending it.  
View here a loose thought said with such a grace, 
The custom of the Country.   
Minerva might have spoke in Venus' face;  
So well disguised, that 'twas conceived by none  
But Cupid had Diana's linen on;  
And all his naked parts so veiled, th' express  
The Shape with clouding the uncomeliness;  
That if this Reformation which we  
Received, had not been buried with thee,  
The Stage (as this work) might have lived and loved;  
Her Lines; the austere Scarlet had approved,  
And th' Actors wisely been from that offence  
As clear, as they are now from Audience.   

Thus with thy Genius did the Scene expire,  
Wanting thy Active and enlivening fire,  
That now (to spread a darkness over all,)  
Nothing remains but Poesy 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, blushless, in the head  
Of the best piece Hermes to Love e'er read,  
That We rejoice and glory in thy Wit,  
And feast each other with remembering it,  
That we dare speak thy thought, thy Acts recite  
Yet all men henceforth be afraid to write.   
RICH. LOVELACE.   

On Master JOHN Fletcher's Dramatical Poems.  
GReat tutelary Spirit of the Stage!  
FLETCHER! I can fix nothing but my rage  
Before thy Works, 'gainst their officious crime  
Who print thee now, in the worst scene of Time.  
For me, uninterrupted hadst thou slept  
Among the holly shades and close hadst kept  
The mystery of thy lines, till men might be  
Taught how to read, and then, how to read thee.  
But now thou art exposed to th'common fate,  
Revive then (mighty Soul!) and vindicate  
From th' Ages rude affronts thy injured fame,  
Instruct the Envious, with how chaste a flame  
Thou warmest the Lover; how severely just  
Thou wert to punish, if he burned to lust.  
With what a blush thou didst the Maid adorn,  
But tempted, with how innocent a scorn.  
How Epidemic errors by thy Play  
Were laughed out of esteem, so purged away.  
How to each sense thou so didst virtue fit,  
That all grew virtuous 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 near to God, while just they be;  
But how dissolved, stretched forth to Tyranny.  
How Kingdoms, in their channel, safely run,  
But rudely overflowing are undone.  
Though vulgar spirits Poets scorn or hate:  
Man may beget, A Poet can create.  
WILL. HABINGTON.   

Upon Master Fletcher's Dramatical Works.  
WHat? now the Stage is down, dar'st thou appear  
Bold Fletcher in this tottering Hemisphere?  
Yes; Poets are like Palms which, the more weight  
You cast upon them grow more strong & straight,  
'Tis not love's Thunderbolt, nor Mars his Spear,  
Or Neptune's angry Trident, poet's fear.  
Had now grim BEN been breathing, with what rage,  
And high-swollen fury had He lashed this age,  
SHAKESPEARE with CHAPMAN had grown mad, and torn  
Their gentle Sock, and lofty Buskins worn,  
To make their Muse welter up to the chin  
In blood; of feigned Scenes no need had been,  
England like Lucian's Eagle with an Arrow  
Of her own Plumes piercing her heart quite thorough,  
Had been a Theater and subject fit  
To exercise in real truth's their wit:  
Yet none like high-winged FLETCHER had been found  
This eagle's tragic-destiny to sound,  
Rare FLETCHER'S quill had soared up to the sky,  
And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy:  
Live famous Dramatist, let every spring  
Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh Burgeons bring:  
And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage,  
we will applaud Thee in this silent Page.  
IA. HOWELL. P.C.C.   

On the Edition.  

FLETCHER (whose Fame no Age can ever waste;  
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)  
Is now alive again; and with his Name  
His sacred Ashes waked into a Flame;  
Such as before did by a secret charm  
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warm,  
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,  
Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light.   

He to a Sympathy those souls betrayed  
Whom Love or Beauty never could persuade;  
And in each moved spectator could beget  
A real passion by a Counterfeit:  
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there  
Did not for every drop let fall a tear?  
And when Aspasia wept, not any eye  
But seemed to wear the same sad livery;  
By him inspired the feigned Lucina drew  
More streams of melting sorrow than the true;  
But then the Scornful Lady did beguile  
Their easy griefs, and teach them all to smile.   

Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;  
Love, Grief and Mirth thus did his Charms obey:  
He Nature taught her passions to outdo,  
How to refine the old, and create new;  
Which such a happy likeness seemed to bear,  
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.   

Yet All had Nothing been, obscurely kept  
In the same Urn wherein his Dust hath slept,  
Nor had he ris 'the Delphic wreath to claim,  
Had not the dying scene expired his Name;  
Despair our joy hath doubled, he is come,  
Thrice welcome by this Post-liminium.  
His loss preserved him; They that silenced Wit,  
Are now the Authors to Eternize it;  
Thus Poets are in spite of Fate revived,  
And Plays by Intermission longer lived.   
THO. STANLEY.   

On the Edition of Mr Francis Beaumont's, and Mr John Fletcher's PLAYS never printed before.  

I Am amazed; and this same Ecstasy  
Is both my Glory and Apology.  
Sober joys are dull Passions; they must bear  
Proportion to the Subject: if so; where  
Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be  
That Subject; That joy must be Ecstasy.  
Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;  
The fool's Distemper: He, that's mad by fits,  
Is wise so too. It is the poet's Muse;  
The prophet's God: the Fools, and my excuse.  
For (in Me) nothing less than Fletcher's Name  
Could have begot, or justified this flame.  
Beaumont Returned? methinks it should not be.  
Fletcher Returned? methinks it should not be.  
No, not in's Works: Plays are as dead as He.  
The Palate of this age gusts nothing High;  
That has not Custard in't or Bawdry.  
Folly and Madness fill the Stage: The Scane  
Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the Mean,  
The Fool 'scapes well enough; Learned and Great,  
Suffer an Ostracism; stand Exulate.   

Mankind is fallen again, shrunk a degree,  
A step below his very Apostasy.  
Nature her Self is out of Tune; and Sick  
Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatic.  
Yet what World would not cheerfully endure  
The Torture, or Disease, t' enjoy the Cure?   

This book's the Balsam, and the Hellebore,  
Must preserve bleeding Nature, and restore  
Our Crazy Stupor to a just quick Sense  
Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.  
That teaches us (at Once) to feel, 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 Power of Love and Wit,  
In this Example: would they not combine  
To make Our Imperfections Their Design?  
They'd study our Corruptions; and take more  
Care to be Ill, than to be Good, before.   

For nothing but so great Infirmity,  
Could make Them worthy of such Remedy.   

Have you not seen the sun's almighty Ray  
Rescue th' affrighted World, and redeem Day  
From black despair: how his victorious Beam  
Scatters the Storm, and drowns the petty flame  
Of Lightning, in the glory of his eye:  
How full of power, how full of Majesty?  
When to us Mortals, nothing else was known,  
But the sad doubt, whether to burn, or drown.   

Choler, and Phlegm, Heat, and dull Ignorance,  
Have cast the people into such a Trance,  
That fears and danger seem Great equally,  
And no dispute left now, but how to die.  
Just in this nick, Fletcher sets the world clear  
Of all disorder and reforms us here.   

The formal Youth, that knew no other Grace,  
Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,  
Glasses himself: and in this faithful Mirror,  
Views, disapproves, reforms, repents his Error.   

The Credulous, bright Girl, that believes all  
Language, (in Oaths) if Good, Canonical,  
Is fortified, and taught, here, to beware  
Of every specious bait, of every snare  
Save one: and that same Caution takes her more,  
Than all the flattery she felt before.  
She finds her Boxes, and her Thoughts betrayed  
By the Corruption of the Chambermaid:  
Then throws her Washes and dissemblings By;  
And Vows nothing but Ingenuity.   

The severe Statesman quits his sullen form  
Of Gravity and business; The Lukewarm  
Religious his Neutrality; The hot  
Brainsick Illuminate his zeal; The Sot  
Stupidity; The Soldier his Arrears;  
The Court its Confidence; The Plebs their fears;  
Gallants their Apishness and Perjury,  
Women their Pleasure and Inconstancy;  
Poets their Wine; the Usurer his Pelf;  
The World its Vanity; and I my Self.   
Roger L' Estrange.   

On the Dramatic Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.  
WOnder! who's here? Fletcher, long buried  
Revived? 'tis he! he'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 Plays are lawful? 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 Month; if she displease,  
The Spanish Curate gives a Writ of ease.  
inquire The Custom of the Country, then  
Shall the French Lawyer set you free again.  
If the two Fair Maids take it wondrous ill,  
(One of the Inn, the other of the Mill,)  
That th' lover's Progress stopped, and they defamed;  
Here's that makes Women Pleased, and Tamer tamed.  
But who then plays the Coxcomb, or will try  
His Wit at several Weapons, or else die?  
Nice Valour and he doubts not to engage  
The Noble Gentleman, in love's Pilgrimage,  
To take revenge on the False One, and run  
The Honest man's Fortune, to be undone  
Like Knight of Malta, or else Captain be  
Or th' Humorous Lieutenant: go to Sea  
(A Voyage for to starve) he's very loath,  
Till we are all at peace, to swear an Oath,  
That than the Loyal Subject may have leave  
To lie from beggar's Bush, and undeceive  
The Creditor, discharge his debts; Why so,  
Since we can't pay to Fletcher what we owe.  
Oh could his Prophetess but tell one Chance,  
When that the pilgrims shall return from France.  
And once more make this Kingdom, as of late,  
The Island Princess, and we celebrate  
A Double Marriage; every one to bring  
To Fletcher's memory his offering.  
That thus at last unsequesters the Stage,  
Brings back 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 Dramatic Poems.  
disdain not Gentle Shades, the lowly praise  
Which here I tender your immortal bays.  
Call it not folly, but my zeal, that I  
Strive to eternize you that cannot die.  
And though no Language rightly can commend  
What you have writ, save what yourselves have penned  
Yet let me wonder at those curious strains  
(The rich Conceptions of your twinlike Brains)  
Which drew the God's attention; who admired  
To see our English Stage by you inspired.  
Whose chiming Muses never failed to sing  
A Soul-affecting Music; ravishing  
Both Ear 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 foil: two wits in growth  
So just, as had one Soul 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  
(Snatched first away) survived still in thee.  
What though distempers of the present Age  
Have banished your smooth numbers from the Stage.  
You shall be gainers by't; it shall confer  
To th' making the vast world your Theater.  
The Press shall give to every man his part,  
And we will all be Actors; learn by heart  
Those Tragic Scenes and Comic Strains you wrote,  
Unimitable 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 dark Spirits  
Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits;  
That have no soul, nor reason to their will,  
But rhyme as ragged, as a gander's Quill:  
Where Pride blows up the Error, and transfers  
Their zeal in Tempests, that so widely errs.  
Like heat and Air compressed, their blind desires  
Mix with their ends, as raging winds with fires.  
Whose Ignorance and Passions, wear an eye  
Squint to all parts of true Humanity.  
All is apocrypha suits not their vain:  
For wit, oh fie! and Learning too; profane!  
But Fletcher hath done Miracles by wit,  
And one Line of his may convert them yet.  
Tempt them into the State of knowledge, and  
Happiness to read and understand.  
The way is strewed with Laurel, and every Muse  
Brings Incense to our Fletcher: whose Scenes infuse  
Such noble kindlings from her pregnant fire,  
As charms her Critic Poets in desire,  
And who doth read him, that parts less endued,  
Then with some heat of wit or Gratitude.  
Some crowd to touch the Relic of his bays,  
Some to cry up their own wit in his praise,  
And think they engage it by Comparatives,  
When from himself, himself he best derives.  
Let Shakespeare, Chapman, and applauded Ben,  
We are the Eternal merit of their Pen,  
Here I am love-sick: and were I to choose,  
A Mistress corrival 'tis Fletcher's Muse.  
George Buck.   

On Mr BEAUMONT. (Written thirty years since, presently after his death.)  
BEaumont lies here; and where now shall we have  
A Muse like his to sigh upon his grave?  
Ah! none to weep this with a worthy tear,  
But he that cannot, Beaumont, that lies here.  
Who now shall pay thy Tomb with such a Verse  
As thou that Ladies didst, fair rutland's Hearse?  
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 seized on Wit, good Epitaphs are scant;  
We dare not write thy Elegy, whilst each fears  
He ne'er shall match that copy of thy tears.  
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 soon as shown.  
Why should weak Nature tire herself in vain  
In such a piece, to dash it straight again?  
Why should she take such work beyond her skill,  
Which when she cannot perfect, she must kill?  
Alas, what is't to temper slime or mire?  
But Nature's puzzled when she works in fire:  
Great Brains (like brightest glass) crack straight, while those  
Of Stone or Wood hold out, and fear not blows.  
And we 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 thouart itself unto that pitch could grow,  
Were't not in thee that hadst arrived the height  
Of all that wit could reach, or Nature might.  
O when I read those excellent things of thine,  
Such Strength, such sweetness couched in every line,  
Such life of Fancy, such high choice of brain,  
Nought of the Vulgar wit or borrowed strain,  
Such Passion, such expressions meet my eye,  
Such Wit untainted with obscenity,  
And these so unaffectedly expressed,  
All in a language purely flowing dressed,  
And all so borne within thyself, thine own,  
So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon.  
I grieve not now that old menander's vein  
Is ruined to survive in thee again;  
Such in his time was he of the same piece,  
The smooth, even natural Wit, and Love of Greece.  
Those few sententious fragments show more worth,  
Than all the Poets Athens e'er brought forth;  
And I am sorry we have lost those hours  
On them, whose quickness comes far short of ours,  
And dwell not more on thee, whose every Page  
May be a pattern for their Scene and Stage.  
I will not yield thy Works so mean a Praise;  
More pure, more chaste, more sainted then are Plays,  
Nor with that dull supineness to be read,  
To pass a fire, or laugh an hour in bed.  
How do the Muses suffer everywhere,  
Taken in such mouths censure, in such ears,  
That twixt a whiff, a Line or two rehearse,  
And with their Rheum together spawl a Verse?  
This all a Poem's leisure after Play,  
Drink or Tobacco, it may keep the Day.  
Whilst even their very idleness they think  
Is lost in these, that lose their time in drink.  
Pity then dull we, we that better know,  
Will a more serious hour 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 scurrile Wits and buffoons both to Thee;  
Yet these our Learned of severest brow  
Will deign to look on, and to note them too,  
That will defy our own, 'tis English stuff,  
And th' Author is not rotten long enough.  
Alas what phlegm 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 outbid them; their conceit was poor,  
All in a Circle of a Bawd or Whore;  
A cozening dance, take the fool away,  
And not a good jest extant in a Play.  
Yet these are Wits, because they're old, and now  
Being Greek and Latin, they are Learning too:  
But those their own Times were content t' allow  
A thirsty fame, and thine is lowest now.  
But thou shalt live, and when thy Name is grown  
Six Ages older, shall be better known,  
When th' art of Chaucer's standing in the Tomb,  
Thou shalt not share, but take up all his room.  
Joh. Earl.   

UPON Mr Fletcher's Incomparable Plays.  
THe Poet lives; wonder not how or why  
Fletcher revives, but that he e'er could die:  
Safe Mirth, full Language, flow in every Page,  
At once he doth both heighten and assuage;  
All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and clear,  
Nor Church nor Laws were ever Libelled here;  
But fair deductions drawn from his great Brain,  
Enough to conquer all that's False or Vain;  
He scatters Wit, and Sense so freely flings  
That very Citizens speak 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 yielding Soul until the frenzy's gone;  
His very lancings do the Patient please,  
As when good Music cures a Mad Disease.  
Small Poets rifle Him, yet think it fair,  
Because they rob a man that well can spare;  
They feed upon him, owe him every bit,  
theyare all but Sub-exciseman of his Wit.  
I. M.   

On the Works of Beaumont and Fletcher, now at length printed.  
GReat pair of Authors, whom one equal Star  
Begot so like in Genius, that you are  
In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit,  
That no man knows where to divide your wit,  
Much less your praise; you, who had equal 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 dress,  
Or the one disposed what th'other did express;  
where'er your parts between yourselves lay, we,  
In all things which you did but one thread see,  
So evenly drawn out, so gently spun,  
That Art with Nature ne'er did smoother run.  
Where shall I fix my praise then? or what part  
Of all your numerous Labours hath desert  
More to be famed then other? shall I say,  
I've met a lover so drawn in your Play,  
So passionately written, so inflamed,  
So jealously enraged, then gently tamed,  
That I in reading have the Person seen,  
And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been?  
Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbear  
To clap, when I a Captain do meet there,  
So lively in his own vain humour dressed,  
So braggingly, and like himself expressed,  
That modern Cowards, when they saw him played,  
Saw, blushed, departed guilty, and betrayed?  
You wrote all parts right; whatsoever the Stage  
Had from you, was seen there as in the age,  
And had their equal life: Vices which were  
Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:  
They who possessed a Box, and half Crown spent  
To learn obsceneness, returned innocent,  
And thanked you for this cozenage, whose chaste Scene  
Taught Loves so noble, so reformed, so clean,  
That they who brought foul fires, and thither came  
To bargain, went thence with a holy flame.  
Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and Vein  
Held both to Tragic and to Comic strain;  
where'er you listed to be high and grave,  
No Buskin showed more solemn, no quill gave  
Such feeling objects to draw tears from eyes,  
Spectators sat part in your Tragedies.  
And where you listed to be low, and free,  
Mirth turned the whole house into Comedy;  
So piercing (where you pleased) 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 halves, and make one wit;  
But as some things we see, have double cause,  
And yet the effect itself from both whole draws;  
So though you were thus twisted and combined  
As two bodies, to have but one fair mind  
Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say  
Both joined, and both did wholly make the Play,  
For that you could write singly, we may guess  
By the divided pieces which the Press  
Hath severally sent forth; nor were gone so  
(Like some our Modern Authors) made to go  
On merely by the help of th'other, who  
To purchase same do come forth one of two;  
Nor wrote you so, that one's 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 mutual want, or emptiness,  
Did you conspire to go still twins to th' Press:  
But what thus joined you wrote, might have come forth  
As good from each, and stored with the same worth  
That thus united them, you did join sense,  
In you 'twas League, in others impotence;  
And the Press which both thus amongst us sends,  
Sends us one Poet in a pair of friends.  
Jasper main.   


Upon the report of the printing of the Dramatical Poems of Master John Fletcher, collected before, and now set forth in one Volume.  

THough when all Fletcher writ, and the entire  
Man was indulged unto that sacred fire,  
His thoughts, and his thoughts dress, appeared both such,  
That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;  
Who therefore wisely did submit each birth  
To knowing Beaumont ere it did come forth,  
Working again until he said 'twas fit,  
And made him the sobriety of his wit;  
Though thus he called his Judge into his fame,  
And for that aid allowed him half the name,  
'Tis known, that sometimes he did stand alone,  
That both the Sponge and Pencil were his own;  
That himself judged himself, could singly do,  
And was at last Beaumont and Fletcher too;   

Else we had lost his Shepherdess, a piece  
Even and smooth, spun from a finer fleece,  
Where softness reigns, where passions passions greet,  
Gentle and high, as floods of Balsam meet.  
Where dressed in white expressions, sit bright Loves,  
Drawn, like their fairest Queen, by milky Doves;  
A piece, which Johnson in a rapture bid  
Come up a glorified Work, and so it did.   

Else had his Muse set with his friend; the Stage  
Had missed those Poems, which yet take the Age;  
The world had lost those rich exemplars, where  
Art, Language, Wit, sit ruling in one Sphere,  
Where the fresh matters soar above old themes,  
As prophet's Raptures do above our Dreams;  
Where in a worthy scorn he dares refuse  
All other Gods, and makes the thing his Muse;  
Where he calls passions up, and lays them so,  
As spirits, awed by him to come and go;  
Where the free Author did whate'er he would,  
And nothing willed, but what a Poet should.   

No vast uncivil bulk swells any Scene,  
The strength's ingenious, and the vigour clean;  
None can prevent the Fancy, and see through  
At the first opening; all stand wondering how  
The thing will be until it is; which thence  
With fresh delight still cheats, still takes the sense;  
The whole design, the shadows, the lights such  
That none can say he shows or hides too much:  
Business grows up, ripened by just increase,  
And by as just degrees again doth cease,  
The heats and minutes of affairs are watched,  
And the nice points of time are met, and snatched:  
Nought later than it should, nought comes before,  
Chemists, and Calculators do err more:  
Sex, age, degree, affections, country, place,  
The inward substance, and the outward face;  
All kept precisely, all exactly fit,  
What he would write, he was before he writ.  
'Twixt Jonson's grave, and shakespeare's lighter sound  
His muse so steered that something still was found,  
Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his own,  
That 'twas his mark, and he was by it known.  
Hence did he take true judgements, hence did strike  
All palates some way, though not all alike:  
The god of numbers might his numbers crown,  
And listening to them wish they were his own.  
Thus welcome forth, what ease, or wine, or wit  
Durst yet produce, that is, what Fletcher writ.    

Another.  
FLetcher, though some call it thy fault, that wit  
So overflowed thy scenes, that ere 'twas fit  
To come upon the Stage, Beaumont was fain  
To bid thee be more dull, that's write again,  
And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came  
In a clear, bright, full, but too large a flame;  
And after all (finding thy Genius such)  
That blunted, and allayed, 'twas yet too much;  
Added his sober sponge, and did contract  
Thy plenty to less wit to make't exact:  
Yet we through his corrections could see  
Much treasure in thy superfluity,  
Which was so filed away, as when we do  
Cut Jewels, that that's lost is jewel too:  
Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know  
By losing makes the stream thence wealthy grow:  
They who do on thy works severely sit,  
And call thy store the over-births of wit,  
Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when  
Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitful Pen  
Had no fault but abundance, which did lay  
Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play;  
And hence do grant, that what they call excess  
Was to be reckoned at thy happiness,  
From whom wit issued in a full springtide;  
Much did enrich the Stage, much flowed beside.  
For that thou couldst thine own free fancy bind  
In stricter numbers, and run so confined  
As to observe the rules of Art, which sway  
In the contrivance of a true borne Play:  
These works proclaim which thou didst write retired  
From Beaumont, by none but thyself inspired;  
Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,  
Nor were thy Plays the Lotteries of wit,  
But like to Durer's Pencil, which first knew  
The laws of faces, and then faces drew:  
Thou know'st the air, the colour, and the place,  
The symmetry, which gives a Poem grace:  
Parts are so fitted unto parts, as do  
Show thou hadst wit, and Mathematics too:  
Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispense,  
And didst beget just Comedies from thence:  
Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,  
That they (their own Blackfriars) unacted breath.  
Johnson hath writ things lasting, and divine,  
Yet his Love-Scenes, Fletcher, compared to thine,  
Are cold and frosty, and expressed love so,  
As heat with Ice, or warm fires mixed with Snow;  
Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts,  
Which burn, and reign in noble Lovers hearts,  
Hast clothed affections in such native tires,  
And so described them in their own true fires;  
Such moving sighs, such undissembled tears,  
Such charms of language, such hopes mixed with fears,  
Such grants after denials, such pursuits  
After despair, such amorous recruits.  
That some who sat spectators have confessed  
Themselves transformed to what they saw expressed,  
And felt such shafts steak through their captived sense,  
As made them rise Parts, and go Lovers thence.  
Nor was thy style wholly composed of Groves,  
Or the soft strains of Shepherds and their Loves;  
When thou wouldst comic be, each smiling birth  
In that kind, came into the world all mirth,  
All point, all edge, all sharpness; we did sit  
Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightful wit,  
Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubt  
In which Scene we laughed most two shillings out.  
Shakespeare to thee was dull, whose best jest lies  
I'th' lady's questions, and the Fools replies;  
Old fashioned wit, which walked from town to town  
In turned Hose, which our fathers called the Clown;  
Whose wit our nice times would obsceneness call,  
And which made Bawdry pass for Comical:  
Nature was all his Art, thy vein was free  
As his, but without his scurility;  
From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplexed,  
But without labour clean, chaste, and unvexed.  
Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who  
Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;  
Whose wit is pilfering, and whose vein and wealth  
In Poetry lies merely in their stealth;  
Nor didst thou feel their drought, their pangs, their qualms,  
Their rack in writing, who do write for alms,  
Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,  
But to their Benefactors dole aspires.  
Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thyself to praise  
Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes  
Didst write stale commendation to thy Book,  
Which we for Beaumont's or Ben Jonson's took:  
That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he  
Can truly pay, Fletcher, who writes like thee.   
William Cartwright.   

On Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then newly dead.)  
HE that hath such acuteness, and such wit,  
As would ask ten good heads to husband it;  
He that can write so well that no man dare  
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:  
BEAUMONT is dead, by whose sole death appears,  
wit's a Disease consumes men in few years.  
RICH. CORBET. D. D.   

To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)  
HOw I do love thee BEAUMONT, and thy Muse,  
That unto me dost such religion use!  
How I do fear myself, that am not worth  
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!  
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmakest;  
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.  
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves?  
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?  
When even there where most thou praisest me,  
For writing better, I must envy thee.  
BEN: JOHNSON.   

Upon Master Fletcher's Incomparable Plays.  
APollo sings, his harp resounds; give room,  
For now behold the golden Pomp is come,  
Thy Pomp of Plays which thousands come to see,  
With admiration both of them and thee,  
O Volume worthy leaf, by leaf and cover  
To be with juice of Cedar washed all over;  
Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent,  
To raise an Act to full astonishment;  
Here melting numbers, words of power to move  
Young men to swoon, and Maids to die for love.  
Love lies a bleeding here, Evadne there  
Swells with brave rage, yet comely everywhere,  
Here's a mad lover, there that high design  
Of King and no King (and the rare Plot thine)  
So that when 'ere we circumvolve our Eyes,  
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varieties,  
Ravish our spirits, that entranced we see  
None writes loves passion in the world, like Thee.  
ROB. HERRICK.   

On the happy Collection of Master FLETCHER'S Works, never before PRINTED.  

FLETCHER arise, Usurpers share thy bays,  
They Canton thy vast Wit to build small Plays:  
He comes! his Volume breaks through clouds and dust,  
Down, little Wits, Ye must refund, Ye must.   

Nor comes he private, here's great BEAUMONT too,  
How could one single World encompass Two?  
For these Heirs had equal power to teach  
All that all Wits both can and cannot reach.  
Shakespeare was early up, and went so dressed  
As for those dawning hours he knew was best;  
But when the Sun shone forth, You Two thought fit  
To wear just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.  
Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must look for New,  
Manners and Scenes may alter, but not You;  
For Yours are not mere Humours, gilded strains;  
The Fashion lost, Your massy Sense remains   

Some think Your Wits of two Complexions framed,  
That One the Sock, th'Other the Buskin claimed;  
That should the Stage embattle all its Force,  
FLETCHER would lead the Foot, BEAUMONT the Horse.  
But, you were Both for Both; not Semiwits,  
Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:  
You're not Two Faculties (and one Soul still)  
He th'Understanding, Thou the quick free Will;  
But, as two Voices in one Song embrace,  
(FLETCHER'S keen Treble, and deep Beaumont's Base)  
Two, full, Congenial Souls; still Both prevailed;  
His Muse and Thine were Quartered, not Impaled:  
Both brought Your Ingots, Both toiled at the Mint,  
Beat, melted, sifted, till no dross stuck in't,  
Then in each Others scales weighed every grain,  
Then smoothed and burnished, then weighed all again,  
Stamped Both your Names upon't at one bold Hit,  
Then, then 'twas Coin, as well as Bullion-Wit.   

Thus Twins: But as when Fate one Eye deprives,  
That other strives to double which survives:  
So BEAUMONT died: yet left in Legacy  
His Rules and Standard-wit (FLETCHER) to Thee.  
Still the same Planet, though not filled so soon,  
A Two-horned Crescent then now one Full-moon.  
Joint Love before, now Honour doth provoke;  
So th' old Twin-Giants forcing a huge Oak  
One slipped his footing, th' Other sees him fall,  
Grasped the whole Tree and single held up all.  
Imperial FLETCHER! here begins thy Reign,  
Scenes flow like Sunbeams from thy glorious Brain;  
Thy swift dispatching Soul no more doth stay  
Then He that built two Cities in one day;  
Ever brim full, and sometimes running o'er  
To feed poor languid Wits that wait at door,  
Who creep and creep, yet ne'er aboveground stood,  
(For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood)  
But thou art still that Bird of Paradise  
Which hath no feet and ever nobly flies:  
Rich, lusty Sense, such as the Poet ought,  
For Poems if not Excellent, are nought;  
Low wit in Scenes? in state a Peasant goes;  
If mean and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose,  
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,  
To whom He that writes Wit, shows he hath none.   

Brave Shakespeare flowed, yet had his Ebbings too,  
Often above Himself, sometimes below;  
Thou Always Best; if aught seemed to decline,  
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine:  
Thus thy fair shepherdess, which the bold Heap  
(False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,  
Was found (when understood) fit to be Crowned,  
At worst 'twas worth two hundred thousand pound.   

Some blast thy Works test we should track their walk  
Where they steal all those few good things they talk;  
Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,  
For Plundered folks ought to be railed upon;  
But (as stolen goods go off at half their worth)  
Thy strong Sense palls when they purloin it forth.  
When didst Thou borrow? where's the man e'er read  
Ought begged by Thee from those Alive or Dead?  
Or from dry Goddesses, as some who when  
They stuff their page with Gods, write worse than Men.  
Thou was't thine own Muse, and hadst such vast odds  
Thou out-writ'st him whose verse made all those Gods:  
Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up rears,  
As much as Greeks or latins thee in years:  
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Banks nor dams,  
We ebb down dry to pebble-Anagrams;  
Dead and insipid, all despairing fit  
Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit:  
What strength remains, is like that (wild and fierce)  
Till johnson made good Poets and right Verse.   

Such boisterous Trifles Thy Muse would not brook,  
Save when she'd show how scurvily they look;  
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)  
Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;  
Thy Nerves have Beauty, which Invades and Charms;  
Looks like a Princess harnessed in bright Arms.   

Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do  
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;  
Tearing themselves, and almost split their brain  
To render harsh what thou speak'st free and clean;  
Such gloomy Sense may pass for High and Proud,  
But trueborn Wit still flies above the Cloud;  
Thou knewst 'twas Impotence what they call Height;  
Who blusters strong i'th' Dark, but creeps i'th' Light.   

And as thy thoughts were clear, so, Innocent;  
Thy Fancy gave no unswept Language vent;  
slanderst not Laws, profanest no holy Page,  
(As if thy Father's Crosier awed the Stage;)  
High Crimes were still arraigned, though they made shift  
To prosper out four Acts, were plagued i'th' Fift:  
All's safe, and wise; no stiff-affected Scene,  
Nor swollen, nor flat, a True Full Natural vein;  
Thy Sense (like well-dressed Ladies) clothed as skinned,  
Not all unlaced, nor City-starched and pinned  
Thou hadst no Sloth, no Rage, no sullen Fit,  
But Strength and Mirth, FLETCHER'S a Sanguine Wit.   

Thus, two great Consul-Poets all things swayed,  
Till all was English Borne or English Made:  
Mitre and Coif here into One Piece spun,  
BEAUMONT a Judge's, This a Prelate's son.  
What strange Production is at last displayed,  
(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aid)  
Behold, two Masculines espoused each other,   

Wit and the World were born without a Mother.   
I. BERKENHEAD.   

To the memory of Master FLETCHER.  

THere's nothing gained by being witty: Fame  
Gathers but wind to blather up a name.  
Orpheus must leave his lyre, or if it be  
In heaven, 'tis there a sign, no harmony;  
And stones, that followed him, may now become  
Now stones again, and serve him for his Tomb.  
The Theban Linus, that was ably skilled  
In Muse and Music, was by Phoebus killed,  
Though Phoebus did beget him: sure his Art  
Had merited his balsam, not his dart.   

But here Apollo's jealousy is seen,  
The god of Physics troubled with the spleen;  
Like timorous Kings he puts a period  
To high grown parts lest he should be no God.  
Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gave  
Life to the world, could not avoid a grave.   

Hence the inspired Prophets of old Rome  
Too great for earth fled to Elysium.   

But the same Ostracism benighted one,  
To whom all these were but illusion;  
It took our FLETCHER hence, Fletcher, whose wit  
Was not an accident to th'soul, but It;  
Only diffused. (Thus we the same Sun call,  
Moving i'th' Sphere, and shining on a wall.)  
Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climb,  
Wit, that ne'er grew, but only showed by time.  
No firework of sack, no seldom shown  
Poetic rage, but still in motion:  
And with far more than Spheric excellence  
It moved, for 'twas its own Intelligence.  
And yet so obvious to sense, so plain,  
You'd scarcely think't allied unto the brain:  
So sweet, it gained more ground upon the Stage  
Then Johnson with his self-admiring rage  
Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell,  
That fools would think, that they could do as well.   

This is our loss: yet spite of Phoebus, we  
Will keep our FLETCHER, for his wit is He.   
EDW. POWELL.   

Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His plays.  

WHat's all this preparation for? or why  
Such sudden Triumphs? FLETCHER the people cry!  
Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits run  
Claret, as here the spouts flow Helicon;  
See, every sprightful Muse dressed trim and gay  
Strews herbs and scatters roses in his way.   

Thus th'outward yard set round with bays we've seen,  
Which from the garden hath transplanted been:  
Thus, at the Praetor's feast, with needless costs  
Some must b'employed in painting of the posts:  
And some as dishes made for sight, not taste,  
Stand here as things for show to Fletcher's feast.  
Oh what an honour! what a Grace 'thad been  
T'have had his Cook in Rollo served them in!   

FLETCHER the King of Poets! such was he,  
That earned all tribute, claimed all sovereignty;  
And may he that denies it, learn to blush  
At's loyal Subject, starve at's beggar's bush:  
And if not drawn by example, shame, nor Grace,  
Turn o'er to's Coxcomb, and the Wild-goose Chase   

Monarch of Wit! great Magazine of wealth!  
From whose rich Bank, by a Promethean-stealth,  
Our lesser flames do blaze! His the true fire,  
When they like Glowworms, being touched, expire.  
'Twas first believed, because he always was,  
The Ipse dixit, and Pythagoras  
To our Disciple-wits; His soul might run  
(By the same-dreamt-of Transmigration)  
Into their rude and indigested brain,  
And so inform their Chaos-lump again;  
For many specious brats of this last age  
Spoke FLETCHER perfectly in every Page.  
This roused his Rage to be abused thus:  
Made's Lover mad, Lieutenant humorous.  
Thus Ends of Gold and Silver-men are made  
(As th'use to say) Goldsmiths of his own trade;  
Thus Rag-men from the dunghill often hop,  
And publish forth by chance a broker's shop:  
But by his own light, now, we have descried  
The dross, from that hath been so purely tried.  
Proteus of wit! who reads him doth not see  
The manners of each sex of each degree!  
His full stored fancy doth all humours fill  
From th'Queen of Corinth to the maid o'th' mill;  
His Curate, Lawyer, Captain, Prophetess  
Show he was all and every one of these;  
He taught (so subtly were their fancies seized)  
To Rule a Wife, and yet the Women pleased.  
Parnassus is thine own, claim't as merit,  
Law makes the Elder Brother to inherit.   
G. Hills.   

IN HONOUR OF Mr John Fletcher.  

SO FLETCHER now presents to fame  
His alone self and unpropped name,  
As Rivers Rivers entertain,  
But still fall single into th'main,  
So doth the Moon in Consort shine  
Yet flows alone into its mine,  
And though her light be jointly thrown,  
When she makes silver 'tis her own:  
Perhaps his quill flew stronger, when  
'twas weaved with his Beaumont's pen;  
And might with deeper wonder hit,  
It could not show more his, more wit;  
So Hercules came by sex and Love,  
When Pallas sprang from single Jove;  
He took his BEAUMONT for Embrace,  
Not to grow by him, and increase,  
Nor for support did with him twine,  
He was his friend's friend, not his vine.  
His wit with wit he did not twist  
To be Assisted, but t' Assist.  
And who could succour him, whose quill  
Did both Run sense and sense Distil?  
Had Time and Art in't, and the while  
Slid even as theirs who're only style,  
Whether his chance did cast it so  
Or that it did like Rivers flow  
Because it must, or whether 'twere  
A smoothness from his file and ear,  
Not the most strict enquiring nail  
Could e'er find where his piece did fail  
Of entire oneness; so the frame,  
Was Composition, yet the same.   

How does he breed his Brother? and  
Make wealth and estate understand?  
Suits Land to wit, makes Luck match merit,  
And makes an Eldest fitly inherit:  
How was he been, when Ben did write  
Tooth stage, not to his judge indite?  
How did he do what Johnson did,  
And Earn what Johnson would have said?   
Jos. How of Trin. Coll. Oxon.   

Master John Fletcher his dramatical Works now at last printed.  

I Could praise Heywood now: or tell how long,  
Falstaff from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:  
But for a Fletcher, I must take an Age,  
And scarce invent the Title for one Page.  
God's must create new Spheres, that should express  
The several Accents, Fletcher, of thy Dress:  
The Pen of Fates should only write thy Praise:  
And all Elysium for thee turn to bays.  
Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they,  
Who the heavens' quarter still before a Play,  
And search the Ephemerides to find,  
When the Aspect for Poets will be kind.  
Thy Poems (sacred Spring) did from thee flow,  
With as much pleasure, as we read them now.  
Nor need we only take them up by fits,  
When love or Physic hath diseased our Wits;  
Or conster's English to untie a knot,  
Hid in a line, far subtler than the Plot.  
With Thee the Page may close his lady's eyes,  
And yet with thee the serious Student Rise:  
The Eye at several angles darting rays,  
Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Plays  
To every understanding still appear,  
As if thou only meant'st to take that Ear;  
The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,  
Where every word has weight and yet no Noise,  
The matter too so nobly fit, no less  
Than such as only could deserve thy Dress:  
Witness thy Comedies, Pieces of such worth,  
All Ages shall still like, but ne'er bring forth.  
Other in season last scarce so long time,  
As cost the Poet but to make the Rhyme:  
Where, if a Lord a new way does but spit,  
Or change his shrug this antiquates the Wit.  
That thou didst live before, nothing would tell  
Posterity, could they but write so well.  
Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance find,  
Not whilst an humour's living, but Mankind.  
Thou, like thy Writings, Innocent and Clean,  
ne'er practised a new Vice, to make one Scene,  
None of thy Ink had gall, and Ladies can,  
Securely hear thee sport without a Fan.   

But when Thy Tragic Muse would please to rise  
In Majesty, and call Tribute from our Eyes;  
Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so,  
Who only came to see, turned Actors too.  
How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feel  
The player's wounds were true, and their swords, steel!  
Nay, stranger yet, how often did I know  
When the Spectators ran to save the blow?  
Frozen with grief we could not stir away  
Until the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.  
What shall I do? all Commendations end,  
In saying only thou wert Beaumont's Friend?  
Give me thy spirit quickly, for I swell,  
And like a raving Prophetess cannot tell  
How to receive thy Genius in my breast:  
Oh! I must sleep, and then I'll sing the rest.   
T. Palmer of Ch. Ch. Oxon.   

Upon the unparalleled Plays written by those Renowned Twins of Poetry BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.  

WHat's here? another Library of praise,  
Met in a Troop t'advance contemned Plays,  
And bring exploded Wit again in fashion?  
I can't but wonder at this Reformation.  
My skipping soul surfeits with so much good,  
To see my hopes into fruition bud.  
A happy Chemistry! blessed viper, joy!  
That through thy mother's bowels gnaw'st thy way!   

wit's flock in shoals, and club to re-erect  
In spite of Ignorance the Architect  
Of Occidental Poesy; and turn  
Gods, to recall wits ashes from their urn.  
Like huge colosses they've together met  
Their shoulders, to support a world of Wit.   

The tale of Atlas (though of truth it miss)  
We plainly read Mythologised in this;  
Orpheus and Amphion whose undying stories  
Made Athens famous, are but Allegories.  
'tis Poetry has power to civilize  
Men, worse than stones, more blockish than the Trees  
I cannot choose but think (now things so fall)  
That wit is past its Climacterical;  
And though the Muses have been dead and gone  
I know they'll find a Resurrection.  
'tis vain to praise; they're to themselves a glory,  
And silence is our sweetest Oratory.  
For he that names but FLETCHER must needs be  
Found guilty of a loud hyperbole.  
His fancy so transcendently aspires,  
He shows himself a wit, who but admires.   

Here are no volumes stuffed with cheverle sense,  
The very Anagrams of Eloquence,  
Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,  
Being rightly spelled, but wit's Stenography.  
Nor words, as void of Reason, as of Rhythm,  
Only caesura'd to spin out the time.  
But here's a Magazine of purest sense  
Clothed in the newest Garb of Eloquence.  
Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veins  
Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high strains.  
Lines like their Authors, and each word of it  
Does say 'twas writ b' a Gemini of Wit.   

How happy is our age! how blessed our men!  
When such rare souls live themselves o'er again.  
We err, that think a Poet dies; for this,  
Shows that 'tis but a Metempsychosis.  
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER here at last we see  
Above the reach of dull mortality,   

Or power of fate: & thus the proverb hits  
(That's so much crossed) These men live by their wits.   
ALEX. BROME.   

On the Death and works of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.  

MY name, so far from great, that 'tis not known,  
Can lend no praise but what thou'dst blush to own;  
And no rude hand, or feeble wit should dare  
To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned tear.   

I'd have a State of Wit convoked, which hath  
A power to take up on common Faith;  
That when the stock of the whole kingdom's spent  
In but preparative to thy Monument,  
The prudent Council may invent fresh ways  
To get new contribution to thy praise,  
And rear it high, and equal to thy Wit  
Which must give life and Monument to it.   

So when late ESSEX died, the Public face  
Wore sorrow in't, and to add mournful Grace  
To the sad pomp of his lamented fall,  
The Common wealth served at his Funeral  
And by a Solemn Order built his Hearse.   

But not like thine, built by thyself, in Verse,  
Where thy advanced Image safely stands  
Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands.  
Base hands how impotently you disclose  
Your rage 'gainst camden's learned ashes, whose  
Defaced Statua and Martyred book,  
Like an Antiquity and Fragment look.  
Nonnulla desunt's legibly appear,  
So truly now Camden's Remains lie there.  
Vain Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath  
Of fame shall speak his great Elizabeth!  
'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath,  
Brittannia is the Tomb and Epitaph.  
Thus Princes honours; but Wit only gives  
A name which to succeeding ages lives.   

Singly we now consult ourselves and fame,  
Ambitious to twist ours with thy great name.  
Hence we thus bold to praise. For as a Vine  
With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine  
A friendly Elm, by whose tall trunk it shoots  
And gathers growth and moisture from its roots;  
About its arms the thankful clusters cling  
Like Bracelets, and with purple enameling  
The blue-cheeked grape stuck in its vernant hair  
Hangs like rich jewels in a beauteous ear.  
So grow our Praises by thy Wit; we do  
Borrow support and strength and lend but show.   

And but thy Male wit like the youthful Sun  
Strongly begets upon our passion.  
Making our sorrow teem with Elegy,  
Thou yet unwept, and yet unpraised might'st be.  
But th' are imperfect births; and such are all  
Produced by causes not univocal,  
The Scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit,  
And hence our verse speaks only Mother wit.   

Oh for a fit o'th' Father! for a Spirit  
That might but parcel of thy worth inherit;  
For but a spark of that diviner fire  
Which thy full breast did animate and inspire;  
That Souls could be divided, thou traduce  
But a small particle of thine to us!  
Of thine; which we admired when thou didst sit  
But as a join-commissioner in Wit;  
When it had plummets hung on to suppress  
It's too luxuriant growing mightiness:  
Till as that tree which scorns to be kept down,  
Thou grew'st to govern the whole Stage alone.  
In which orb thy thronged light did make the star,  
Thou wert th' Intelligence did move that Sphere.  
Thy Fury was composed; Rapture no fit  
That hung on thee; nor thou far gone in wit  
As men in a disease; thy Fancy clear,  
Muse chaste, as those frames whence they took their fire;  
No spurious composures amongst thine  
Got in adultery twixt Wit and Wine.   

And as th' Hermetical Physicians draw  
From things that curse of the first-broken Law,  
That Ens Venenum, which extracted thence  
Leaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence:  
So was thy Spirit calcined; no Mixtures there  
But perfect, such as next to Simples are.  
Not like those Meteor-wits which wildly fly  
In storm and thunder through th'amazed sky;  
Speaking but th'Ills and Villainies in a State,  
Which fools admire, and wise men tremble at,  
Full of portent and prodigy, whose Gall  
Oft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall.  
Nature used all her skill, when thee she meant  
A Wit at once both Great and Innocent.   

Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy judgement, not  
For mending one word, a whole sheet to blot.  
Thou couldst anatomize with ready art  
And skilful hand crimes locked close up i'th' heart.  
Thou couldst unfold dark Plots, and show that path  
By which Ambition climbed to Greatness hath.  
Thou couldst the rises, turns, and falls of States,  
How near they were their Periods and Dates;  
Couldst mad the Subject into popular rage,  
And the grown seas of that great storm assuage,  
Dethrone usurping Tyrants, and place there  
The lawful Prince and true Inheriter;  
Knewst all dark turnings in the Labyrinth  
Of policy, which who but knows he sinn'th,  
Save thee, who uninfected didst walk in't  
As the great Genius of Government.  
And when thou laidst thy tragic buskin by  
To Court the Stage with gentle Comedy,  
How new, how proper th' humours, how expressed  
In rich variety, how neatly dressed  
In language, how rare Plots, what strength of Wit  
Shined in the face and every limb of it!  
The Stage grew narrow while thou grew'st to be  
In thy whole life an Excellent Comedy.   

To these a Virgin-modesty which first met  
Applause with blush and fear, as if he yet  
Had not deserved; till bold with constant praise  
His brows admitted the unfought for bays.  
Nor would he ravish fame; but left men free  
To their own Vote and Ingenuity.  
When His fair Shepherdess on the guilty Stage,  
Was martyred between Ignorance and Rage;  
At which the impatient Virtues of those few  
Could judge, grew high, cried Murder: though he knew  
The innocence and beauty of his Child,  
He only, as if unconcerned, smiled.  
PRINCE's have gathered since each scattered grace,  
Each line and beauty of that injured face;  
And on th'united parts breathed such a fire  
As spite of Malice she shall ne'er expire.   

Attending, not affecting, thus the crown  
Till every hand did help to set it on,  
He came to be sole Monarch, and did reign  
In Wits great Empire, absolute Sovereign.   
JOHN HARRIS.   

On Mr. JOHN FLETCER'S ever to be admired Dramatical Works.  

I'Ve thought upon't; and thus I may gain bays,  
I will commend thee Fletcher, and thy Plays.  
But none but Wits can do't, how then can I  
Come in amongst them, that could ne'er come nigh?  
There is no other way, I'll throng to sit  
And pass i'th' Crowd amongst them for a Wit.  
Apollo knows me not, nor I the Nine,  
All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine.   

By your leave Gentlemen. You Wits o'th' age,  
You that both furnished have, and judged the Stage.  
You, who the Poet and the Actors fright,  
lest that your Censure thin the second night:  
Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Critics think  
There ere was solecism in Fletcher's Ink?  
Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?  
A happiness not still allowed to Ben!  
After of Time and Wit he'd been at cost  
He of his own new-inn was but an Host.  
Inspired, FLETCHER! here's no vainglorious words:  
How e'en thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords.  
Thy Language so insinuates, each one  
Of thy spectators has thy passion.  
Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove:  
Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love:  
Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Lady's can't say  
Though Stephen miscarried that so did the play:  
Judgement could ne'er to this opinion lean  
That Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene:  
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me  
Thy very Farce appears a Comedy.  
Thy drollery is design, each looser part  
Stuffs not thy Plays, but makes 'em up an Art  
The Stage has seldom seen; how often vice  
Is smartly scourged to check us? to entice,  
How well encouraged virtue is? how guarded,  
And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?   

Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit,  
Reclaimed by thee, came converts from the pit.  
And many a she that to be ta'en up came,  
Took up themselves, and after left the game.   
HENRY HARINGTON.   

To the memory of the deceased but everliving Author in these his Poems, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.  

ON the large train of Fletcher's friends let me  
(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)  
Become a Waiter in my ragged verse,  
As Follower to the Muses Followers.  
Many here are of Noble rank and worth,  
That have, by strength of Art, set Fletcher forth  
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,  
And had the best abilities to draw him;  
Many more are abroad, that write, and look  
To have their lines set before Fletcher's Book;  
Some, that have known him too; some more, some less;  
Some only but by Hearsay, some by Guess,  
And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint  
To try how well their Wits would show in Print.  
You, that are here before me Gentlemen,  
And Princes of Parnassus by the Pen  
And your just Judgements of his worth, that have  
Preserved this Authors memory from the Grave,  
And made it glorious; let me, at your gate,  
Porter it here, 'gainst those that come too late,  
And are unfit to enter. Something I  
Will deserve here: For where you versify  
In flowing numbers, lawful Weight, and Time,  
I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rhyme.  
I am admitted. Now, have at the Rout  
Of those that would crowd in, but must keep out.  
Bear back, my Masters; Pray keep back; Forbear:  
You cannot, at this time have entrance here.  
You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,  
Find entertainment at the next Impression.  
But let none then attempt it, that not know  
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:  
All such must be excluded; and the sort,  
That only upon trust, or by report  
Have taken Fletcher up, and think it trim  
To have their Verses planted before Him:  
Let them read first his Works, and learn to know him,  
And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.  
But far from hence he such, as would proclaim:  
Their knowledge of this Author, not his Fame;  
And such, as would pretend, of all the rest,  
To be the best Wits that have known him best.  
Depart hence all such Writers, and, before  
Inferior ones, thrust in, by many a score,  
As formerly, before Tom Coryate,  
Whose Work before his Praisers had the Fate  
To perish: For the witty Copies took  
Of his Encomiums made themselves a Book.  
Here's no such subject for you to outdo,  
Outshine, outlive (though well you may do too  
In other Spheres:) For Fletcher's flourishing bays  
Must never fade while Phoebus wears his Rays.  
Therefore forbear to press upon him thus.  
Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?  
Do not we know you for a flashy Meteor?  
And styled (at best) the muse's Serving-creature?  
Do you control? You've had your Jere: Sirs, no;  
But, in an humble manner, let you know  
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit  
T'inform young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,  
What they inherit; and how well their Dads  
Left one, and wished the other to their Lads.  
And from departed Poets I can guess  
Who has a greater share of Wit, who less.  
' Way Fool, another says. ay, let him rail,  
And 'bout his own ears flourish his Wits-tail,  
Till with his Swingle he his Noddle break;  
While this of Fletcher and his Works I speak:  
His Works (says Momus) nay, his Plays you'd say:  
Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play  
Which was to other's brains a toil: with ease  
He played on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.  
His nimble Births have longer lived than theirs  
That have, with strongest Labour, divers years  
Been sending forth the issues of their Brains  
Upon the Stage; and shall to th' stationer's gains  
Life after life take, till some After-age  
Shall put down Printing, as this doth the Stage;  
Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,  
But in dumb-shows her own sad Tragedy.  
Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,  
Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood.   

But to the Man again, of whom we write,  
The Writer that made Writing his Delight,  
Rather than Work. He did not pump, nor drudge,  
To beget Wit, or manage it; nor trudge  
To Wit-conventions with Notebook, to glean  
Or steal some Jests to foist into a Seen:  
He scorned those shifts. You, that have known him, know  
The common talk that from his Lips did flow,  
And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,  
Than any of his time, or since have writ,  
(But few excepted) in the Stages way:  
His Scenes were Acts, and every Act a Play.  
I knew him in his strength; even then, when He  
That was the Master of his Art and Me  
Most knowing Johnson (proud to call him Son)  
In friendly Envy swore, He had outdone  
His very Self. I knew him till he died;  
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide  
Of sorrow overwhelmed the Stage; which gave  
Volleys of sighs to send him to his grave.  
And grew distracted in most violent Fits  
(For She had lost the best part of her Wits.)  
In the first year, our famous Fletcher fell,  
Of good King Charles who graced these Poems well,  
Being then in life of Action: But they died  
Since the king's absence; or were laid aside,  
As is their Poet. Now at the Report  
Of the Kings second coming to his Court,  
The Books creep from the Press to Life not Action,  
Crying unto the World, that no protraction  
May hinder Sacred Majesty to give  
Fletcher, in them, leave on the Stage to live.  
Others may more in lofty Verses move;  
I only, thus, express my Truth and Love.   
RIC. BROME.   

Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN Fletcher's works.  
WHat means this numerous Guard? or do we come  
To file our Names or Verse upon the Tomb  
Of Fletcher, and by boldly making known  
His Wit, betray thee Nothing of our Own?  
For if we grant him dead, it is as true  
Against ourselves, No Wit, no Poet now;  
Or if he be returned from his cool shade,  
To us, this Book his Resurrection's made,  
We bleed ourselves to death, and but contrive  
By our own Epitaphs to show him alive.  
But let him live and let me prophesy,  
As I go Swanlike out, Our Peace is nigh;  
A Balm unto the wounded Age I sing,  
And nothing now is wanting but the King.  
JA. SHIRLEY.   

THE STATIONER.  
AS after th' Epilogue there comes some one  
To tell Spectators what shall next be shown;  
So here, am I; but though I've toiled and vexed,  
'Cannot devise what to present ye next;  
For, since ye saw no Plays this Cloudy weather,  
Here we have brought Ye our whole Stock together.  
'Tis new, and all these Gentlemen attest  
Under their hands 'tis Right, and of the Best;  
Thirty four Witnesses (without my task)  
You've just so many Plays (besides a Mask)  
All good (t'me told) as have been Read or Played,  
If this Book fail, 'tis time to quit the Trade.  
H. MOSELEY.   

POSTCRIPT.  
WE forgot to tell the Reader, that some Prologues and Epilogues (here inserted) were not written by the Authors of this Volume; but made by others on the Revival of several Plays. After the Comedies and Tragedies were wrought off, we were forced (for expedition) to send the gentlemen's Verses to several Printers, which was the occasion of their different Character; but the Work itself is one continued Letter, which (though very legible) is none of the biggest, because (as much as possible) we would lessen the Bulk of the Volume.   

A CATALOGUE of all the Comedies and Tragedies Contained in this Book.  

THe Mad Lover.  
The Spanish Curate.  
The little French Lawyer.  
The Custom of the Country.  
The Noble Gentleman.  
The Captain.  
The beggar's Bush.  
The Coxcomb.  
The False One.  
The Chances.  
The Loyal Subject.  
The Laws of Candy.  
The Lover's Progress.  
The Island Princess.  
The Humorous Lieutenant.  
The Nice Valour, or the Passionate Mad Man.  
The Maid in the Mill.  
The Prophetess.  
The Tragedy of Bonduca.  
The Sea Voyage.  
The Double Marriage.  
The Pilgrim.  
The Knight of Malta.  
The Woman's Prize, or the Tamer Tamed.  
love's Cure, or the Martial Maid.  
The Honest Man's Fortune.  
The Queen of Corinth.  
Women Pleased.  
A Wife for a Month.  
Wit at several Weapons.  
The Tragedy of Valentinian.  
The Fair Maid of the inn.  
love's Pilgrimage.  
The Mask of the Gentlemen of Grays-Inn, and the Inner Temple, at the Marriage of the Prince and princess Palatine of Rhine.  
four Plays (or Moral Representations) in one.  
The wild Goose chase