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THE WORKS OF FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER

In ten volumes


Vol. I



FRANCIS BEAUMONT

Born 1584

Died 1616


JOHN FLETCHER

Born 1579

Died 1625


THE MAIDS TRAGEDY

PHILASTER

A KING, AND NO KING

THE SCORNFUL LADY

THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY




THE TEXT EDITED BY

ARNOLD GLOVER, M.A.

OF TRINITY COLLEGE AND THE INNER TEMPLE


NOTE.

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

                   Comedies | and | Tragedies |

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

  Never printed before, | And now published by
  the Authours | Originall Copies. | _Si quid habent
  veri Vatum praesagia, vivam.|London_, | Printed for
  _Humphrey Robinson_, at the three _Pidgeons_, and for |
  _Humphrey Moseley_ at the _Princes Armes in St Pauls_.


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present edition, contained all the authors' previously unpublished plays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

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

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

_Felicis aevi ac_ Praesulis _Natus; comes_ Beaumontis; _sic, quippe
Parnassus_, biceps; FLETCHERUS _unam in Pyramida furcas agens. Struxit
chorum plus simplicem Vates Duplex; Plus duplicem solus: nec ullum
transtulit; Nec transferendus: Dramatum aeterni sales,_ Anglo _Theatro,
Orbe, Sibi, superstites_.

_FLETCHERE, facies absqz vultu pingitur; Quantus! vel_ umbram _circuit
nemo tuam._

J. Berkenhead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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



CONTENTS

  Epistle Dedicatorie to the First Folio

  Ja. Shirley to the Reader (First Folio)

  The Stationer to the Readers (First Folio)

  Commendatory Verses (First Folio)

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

  Title-page of the Second Folio

  The Booksellers to the Reader (Second Folio)

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

  The Maids Tragedy

  Philaster: or, Love lies a Bleeding

  A King, and no King

  The Scornful Lady, a Comedy

  The Custom of the Country

  Appendix

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PHILIP

Earle of Pembroke and Mountgomery:

Baron Herbert of Cardiffe and Sherland,

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

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

My Lord, _There is none among all the_ Names _of_ Honour, _that hath A
more encouraged the_ Legitimate Muses _of this latter Age, then that
which is owing to your_ Familie; _whose_ Coronet _shines bright with the
native luster of its owne_ Jewels, _which with the accesse of some Beames
of_ Sydney, _twisted with their_ Flame _presents a_ Constellation, _from
whose_ Influence _all good may be still expected upon Witt and Learning_.

_At this_ Truth _we rejoyce, but yet aloofe, and in our owne valley, for
we dare not approach with any capacity in our selves to apply your
Smile, since wee have only preserved as_ Trustees _to the_ Ashes _of the
Authors, what wee exhibit to your_ Honour, _it being no more our owne,
then those_ Imperiall Crownes _and_ Garlands _were the Souldiers, who
were honourably designed for their Conveyance before the_ Triumpher _to
the_ Capitol.

_But directed by the example of some, who once steered in our qualitie,
and so fortunately aspired to choose your_ Honour, _joyned with your (now
glorified_) Brother, Patrons _to the flowing compositions of the then
expired sweet_ Swan _of_ Avon SHAKESPEARE; _and since, more particularly
bound to your_ Lordships _most constant and diffusive_ Goodnesse, _from
which, wee did for many calme yeares derive a subsistence to our
selves, and Protection to the Scene (now withered, and condemned, as we
feare, to a long Winter and sterilitie) we have presumed to offer to your_
Selfe, _what before was never printed of these_ Authours.

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

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

MY LORD,

Your Honours most bounden

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

TO THE READER.


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JA. SHIRLEY.


The Stationer to the Readers.


_Gentlemen,_ before you engage farther, be pleased to take notice of
these Particulars. You have here a _New Booke_; I can speake it clearely;
for of all this large Volume of _Comedies_ and _Tragedies_, not one, till
now, was ever printed before. A _Collection of Playes_ is commonly but a
_new Impression_, the scattered pieces which were printed single, being
then onely Republished together: 'Tis otherwise here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 _One that is a Servant to you all_

 HUMPHREY MOSELEY.
_At the_ Princes Armes _in_
 St Pauls _Church-yard_. Feb._ 14th 1646.


To the Stationer.

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

                                                              GRANDISON.


IN MEMORY OF Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.

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

                                                          H. HOWARD.


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

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

                                                  HENRY MODY, Baronet.


ON

Mr Fletchers Works.

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

                                                     THOMAS PEYTON.
                                           _Agricola Anglo-Cantianus._



VERSES

ON THE

Deceased Authour, Mr John Fletcher,
his Plays; and especially, _The Mad Lover_.

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

                                          ASTON COKAINE, Baronet.


  Upon the Works of BEAUMONT,
  and FLETCHER.

  _How_ Angels (_cloyster'd in our humane Cells_)
  _Maintaine their parley,_ Beaumont-Fletcher _tels;
  Whose strange unimitable Intercourse
  Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force
  Of the most forward soules; all must submit
  Untill they reach these_ Mysteries _of Wit.
  The_ Intellectuall Language _here's exprest,
  Admir'd in better times, and dares the Test
  Of Ours; for from_ Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, _and_ Sence,
  _This Volume springs a new true_ Quintessence.

                                                  JO. PETTUS, Knight.


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

  Haile_ Fletcher, _welcome to the worlds great Stage;
  For our two houres, we have thee here an age
  In thy whole Works, and may th'_ Impression _call
  The_ Pretor _that presents thy Playes to all:
  Both to the People, and the_ Lords _that sway
  That_ Herd, _and Ladies whom those Lords obey.
  And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite
  But moves on two Poles,_ Profit _and_ Delight,
  _Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest
  When every one is tickled with a jest:
  And that pure_ Fletcher, _able to subdue
  A_ Melancholy _more then_ Burton _knew.
  And though upon the by, to his designes
  The_ Native _may learne English from his lines,
  And_ th' Alien _if he can but construe it,
  May here be made free_ Denison _of wit.
  But his maine end does drooping_ Vertue _raise,
  And crownes her beauty with eternall_ Bayes;
  _In Scaenes where she inflames the frozen soule,
  While_ Vice _(her paint washt off) appeares so foule;
  She must this_ Blessed Isle _and Europe leave,
  And some new_ Quadrant _of the_ Globe _deceive:
  Or hide her Blushes on the_ Affrike _shore
  Like_ Marius, _but ne're rise to_ triumph _more;
  That_ honour _is resign'd to_ Fletchers _fame;
  Adde to his Trophies, that a_ Poets _name
  (Late growne as odious to our_ Moderne _states
  As that of_ King _to Rome) he vindicates
  From black aspertions, cast upon't by those
  Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.

  _And_, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,
  _What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,
  When we name_ Fletcher _shall be so proclaimed,
  As all that's_ Royall _is when_ Caesar's _nam'd.

                                      ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.


To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. _Francis Beaumont_.

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

                                                     GEORGE LISLE Knight.


On Mr. _JOHN FLETCHER'S_ Workes.

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

                                                               J. DENHAM.


Upon Mr. _John Fletcher's_ Playes.

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

                                                         EDW. WALLER.


To FLETCHER Reviv'd.

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

                                                     RICH. LOVELACE.


On Master JOHN FLETCHERS

Dramaticall Poems.

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

                                          WILL. HABINGTON.


Upon Master FLETCHERS Dramaticall Workes.

  _What? now the Stage is down, darst thou appeare
  Bold_ FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear?
  Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weight
  You cast upon them, grow more strong & streight,
  'Tis not _love's_ Thunderbolt, nor _Mars_ his Speare,
  Or _Neptune's_ angry Trident, Poets fear.
  _Had now grim_ BEN _bin breathing, 'with what rage,
  And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age_,
  SHAKESPEARE _with_ CHAPMAN _had grown madd, and torn
  Their gentle_ Sock, _and lofty_ Buskins _worne,
  To make their Muse welter up to the chin
  In blood; of_ faigned _Scenes no need had bin_,
  England _like_ Lucians _Eagle with an Arrow_
  Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow,
  Had bin a Theater and subject fit
  To exercise in_ real _truth's their wit:
  Tet none like high-wing'd_ FLETCHER _had bin found
  This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound,
  Rare_ FLETCHER'S _quill_ had soar'd up to the sky,
  And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy:
  Live famous Dramatist, let every _spring_
  Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons _bring:
  And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage,
  Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page_.

                                                 JA. HOWELL. _P.C.C._


On the Edition.

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

                                                     THO. STANLEY.


On the Edition of Mr _Francis Beaumonts_, and Mr _John Fletchers_ PLAYES
never printed before.

  I Am _amaz'd_; and this same _Extacye_
  Is both my _Glory_ and _Apology_.
  _Sober Joyes are dull Passions_; they must beare
  Proportion to the _Subject_: if _so_; where
  _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_ shall vouchsafe to be
  _That Subject_; _That Joy_ must be _Extacye_.
  _Fury_ is the _Complexion_ of _great Wits_;
  The _Fooles Distemper_: Hee, thats _mad_ by _fits_,
  Is _wise so_ too. It is the _Poets Muse_;
  The _Prophets God_: the _Fooles_, and _my excuse_.
  For (in _Me_) nothing lesse then _Fletchers Name_
  Could have _begot_, or _justify'd_ this _flame_.
  _Beaumont_ }
  _Fletcher_     } _Return'd?_ methinks it should not be.
  _No_, not in's _Works_: _Playes_ are as _dead_ as _He_.
  The _Palate_ of _this age gusts_ nothing _High_;
  That has not _Custard_ in't or _Bawdery_.
  _Folly_ and _Madnesse_ fill the _Stage_: The _Scaene_
  Is _Athens_; _where_, the _Guilty_, and the _Meane_,
  The _Foole 'scapes_ well enough; _Learned_ and _Great_,
  Suffer an _Ostracisme_; stand _Exulate_.

  _Mankinde_ is _fall'n againe_, _shrunke_ a _degree_,
  A _step_ below his very _Apostacye_.
  _Nature_ her _Selfe_ is out of _Tune_; and _Sicke_
  Of _Tumult_ and _Disorder_, _Lunatique_.
  Yet _what World_ would not cheerfully _endure_
  The _Torture_, or _Disease_, t' _enjoy_ the _Cure?_

  _This Booke's_ the _Balsame_, and the _Hellebore_,
  Must _preserve bleeding Nature_, and _restore_
  Our _Crazy Stupor_ to a _just quick Sence_
  Both of _Ingratitude_, and _Providence_.
  That teaches us (at _Once_) to _feele_, and _know_,
  _Two deep Points_: what we _want_, and what we _owe_.
  Yet _Great Goods have their Ills_: Should we _transmit_
  To _Future Times_, the _Pow'r_ of _Love_ and _Wit_,
  In _this Example_: would they not _combine_
  To make _Our Imperfections Their Designe?_
  They'd _study_ our _Corruptions_; and take more
  _Care_ to be _Ill_, then to be _Good_, _before_.
  For _nothing but so great Infirmity,
  Could make Them worthy of such Remedy.

  Have you not scene the Suns almighty Ray
  Rescue th' affrighted World_, and _redeeme Day_
  From _blacke despaire_: how his _victorious Beame_
  _Scatters_ the _Storme_, and _drownes_ the _petty flame_
  Of _Lightning_, in the _glory_ of his _eye_:
  How _full_ of _pow'r_, how _full_ of _Majesty?_
  When to _us Mortals, nothing_ else was _knowne_,
  But the _sad doubt_, whether to _burne_, or _drowne_.

  _Choler_, and _Phlegme, Heat_, and _dull Ignorance,_
  Have cast _the people_ into _such_ a _Trance_,
  That _feares_ and _danger_ seeme _Great equally_,
  And no _dispute_ left now, but _how_ to _dye_.
  Just in _this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare_
  Of all disorder and reformes us here.

  The _formall Youth_, that knew _no_ other _Grace_,
  Or _Value_, but his _Title_, and his _Lace_,
  _Glasses himselfe_: and in _this faithfull Mirrour_,
  _Views, disaproves, reformes, repents_ his _Errour_.

  The _Credulous, bright Girle_, that _beleeves all_
  _Language_, (in _Othes_) if _Good, Canonicall_,
  Is _fortifi'd_, and _taught, here_, to _beware_
  Of _ev'ry_ specious _bayte_, of _ev'ry snare_
  Save _one_: and _that_ same _Caution_ takes her _more_,
  Then _all_ the _flattery_ she _felt before_.
  She finds her _Boxes_, and her _Thoughts betray'd_
  By the _Corruption_ of the _Chambermaide_:
  _Then throwes_ her _Washes_ and _dissemblings_ By;
  And _Vowes_ nothing but _Ingenuity_.

  The _severe States-man quits_ his _sullen forme_
  Of _Gravity_ and _bus'nesse_; The _Luke-warme_
  _Religious_ his _Neutrality_; The _hot_
  _Braine-sicke Illuminate_ his _zeale; The Sot_
  _Stupidity_; The _Souldier_ his _Arreares_;
  The _Court_ its _Confidence_; The _Plebs_ their _feares_;
  _Gallants_ their _Apishnesse_ and _Perjurie_,
  _Women_ their _Pleasure_ and _Inconstancie_;
  _Poets_ their _Wine_; the _Usurer_ his _Pelfe_;
  The _World_ its _Vanity_; and _I_ my _Selfe_.

                                                       Roger L'Estrange.


COMMENDATORY

On the Dramatick Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

  _Wonder! who's here?_ Fletcher, _long buried
  Reviv'd? Tis he! hee's risen from the Dead.
  His winding sheet put off, walks above ground,
  Shakes off his Fetters, and is better bound.
  And may he not, if rightly understood,
  Prove Playes are lawfull? he hath_ made them Good.
  _Is any_ Lover Mad? _see here_ Loves Cure;
  _Unmarried? to a_ Wife _he may be sure
  A rare one_, For a Moneth; _if she displease,
  The_ Spanish Curate _gives a Writ of ease.
  Enquire_ The Custome of the Country, _then
  Shall_ the French Lawyer _set you free againe.
  If the two_ Faire Maids _take it wondrous ill,
  (One of_ the Inne, _the other of_ the Mill,)
  _That th'_ Lovers Progresse _stopt, and they defam'd;
  Here's that makes_ Women Pleas'd, _and_ Tamer tamd.
  _But who then playes the_ Coxcombe, _or will trie
  His_ Wit at severall Weapons, _or else die?_
  Nice Valour _and he doubts not to engage
  The_ Noble Gentl'man, _in_ Loves Pilgrimage,
  _To take revenge on the_ False One, _and run
  The_ Honest mans Fortune, _to be undone
  Like_ Knight of Malta, _or else_ Captaine _be
  Or th'_ Humerous Lieutenant: _goe to Sea_
  (A Voyage _for to starve) hee's very loath,
  Till we are all at peace, to sweare an Oath,
  That then the_ Loyall Subject _may have leave
  To lye from_ Beggers Bush, _and undeceive
  The Creditor, discharge his debts; Why so,
  Since we can't pay to_ Fletcher _what we owe.
  Oh could his_ Prophetesse _but tell one_ Chance,
  _When that the_ Pilgrimes _shall returne from France.
  And once more make this Kingdome, as of late,
  The_ Island Princesse, _and we celebrate
  A_ Double Marriage; _every one to bring
  To_ Fletchers _memory his offering.
  That thus at last unsequesters the Stage,
  Brings backe the Silver, and the Golden Age_.

                                                       Robert Gardiner.


To the _Manes_ of the celebrated Poets and Fellow-writers, _Francis
Beaumont_ and _John Fletcher_, upon the Printing of their excellent
Dramatick Poems.

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

                                                              John Web.


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

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

                                                       George Buck.


On Mr BEAUMONT.

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

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

                                                               Joh. Earle.


UPON Mr FLETCHERS

Incomparable Playes.

  _The Poet lives; wonder not how or why_
  Fletcher _revives, but that he er'e could dye:
  Safe_ Mirth, _full_ Language, _flow in ev'ry Page,
  At once he doth both_ heighten _and_ aswage;
  _All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and cleare,
  Nor_ Church _nor_ Lawes _were ever Libel'd here;
  But faire deductions drawn from his great Braine,
  Enough to conquer all that's_ False _or_ Vaine;
  _He scatters Wit, and Sence so freely flings
  That very_ Citizens _speake handsome things,
  Teaching their_ Wives _such unaffected grace,
  Their_ Looks _are now as handsome as their_ Face.
  _Nor is this violent, he steals upon
  The yeilding Soule untill the_ Phrensie's _gone_;
  _His very_ Launcings _do the Patient_ please,
  _As when good_ Musicke _cures a_ Mad Disease.
  _Small Poets rifle Him, yet thinke it faire,
  Because they rob a man that well can spare;
  They feed upon him, owe him every bit,
  Th'are all but_ Sub-excisemen _of his Wit._

                                                                   J. M.


On the Workes of _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_, now at length printed.

  _Great paire of Authors, whom one equall Starre
  Begot so like in_ Genius, _that you are
  In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit,
  That no man knowes where to divide your wit,
  Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire,
  And did each other mutually inspire;
  Whether one did contrive, the other write,
  Or one framed the plot, the other did indite;
  Whether one found the matter, th'other dresse,
  Or the one disposed what th'other did expresse;
  Where e're your parts betweene your selves lay, we,
  In all things which you did but one thred see,
  So evenly drawne out, so gently spunne,
  That Art with Nature nere did smoother run.
  Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what part
  Of all your numerous Labours hath desert
  More to be fam'd then other? shall I say,
  I've met a lover so drawne in your Play,
  So passionately written, so inflamed,
  So jealously inraged, then gently tam'd,
  That I in reading have the Person seene.
  And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been?
  Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbeare
  To clap, when I a Captain do meet there,
  So lively in his owne vaine humour drest,
  So braggingly, and like himself exprest,
  That moderne Cowards, when they saw him plaid,
  Saw, blusht, departed guilty, and betraid?
  You wrote all parts right; whatsoe're the Stage
  Had from you, was seene there as in the age,
  And had their equall life: Vices which were
  Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:
  _They who possest a Box, and halfe Crowns spent
  To learne Obscenenes, returned innocent,
  And thankt you for this coznage, whose chaste Scene
  Taught Loves so noble, so reformed, so cleane,
  That they who brought foule fires, and thither came
  To bargaine, went thence with a holy flame.
  Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and Veyne
  Held both to Tragick and to Comick straine;
  Where e're you listed to be high and grave,
  No Buskin shew'd more solem[n]e, no quill gave
  Such feeling objects to draw teares from eyes,
  Spectators sate part in your Tragedies.
  And where you listed to be low, and free,
  Mirth turn'd the whole house into Comedy;
  So piercing (where you pleas'd) hitting a fault,
  That humours from your pen issued all salt.
  Nor were you thus in Works and Poems knit,
  As to be but two halfes, and make one wit;
  But as some things we see, have double cause,
  And yet the effect it selfe from both whole drawes;
  So though you were thus twisted and combind
  As two bodies, to have but one faire minde
  Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say
  Both joyn'd, and both did wholly make the Play,
  For that you could write singly, we may guesse
  By the divided peeces which the Presse
  Hath severally sent forth; nor were gone so
  (Like some our Moderne Authors) made to go
  On meerely by the helpe of the other, who
  To purchase fame do come forth one of two;
  Nor wrote you so, that ones part was to lick
  The other into shape, nor did one stick
  The others cold inventions with such wit,
  As served like spice, to make them quick and fit;
  Nor out of mutuall want, or emptinesse,
  Did you conspire to go still twins to th' Presse:
  But what thus joy tied you wrote, might have come forth
  As good from each, and stored with the same worth
  That thus united them, you did joyne sense,
  In you 'twas League, in others impotence;
  And the Presse which both thus amongst us sends,
  Sends us one Poet in a faire of friends._

                                                             Jasper Maine.


Upon the report of the printing of the Dramaticall 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 dresse, appeared both such,
  That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;
  Who therefore wisely did submit each birth
  To knowing_ Beaumont _e're it did come forth,
  Working againe untill he said 'twas fit,
  And made him the sobriety of his wit;
  Though thus he call'd his Judge into his fame,
  And for that aid allow'd him halfe the name,
  'Tis knowne, that sometimes he did stand alone,
  That both the Spunge and Pencill were his owne;
  That himselfe judged himselfe, could singly do,
  And was at last_ Beaumont _and_ Fletcher _too;
    Else we had lost his_ Shepherdesse, _a piece
  Even and smooth, spun from a finer fleece,
  Where softnesse raignes, where passions passions greet,
  Gentle and high, as floods of Balsam meet.
  Where dressed in white expressions, sit bright Loves,
  Drawne, like their fairest Queen, by milkie Doves;
  A piece, which_ Johnson _in a rapture bid
  Come up a glorifi'd Worke, 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 Spheare,
  Where the fresh matters soare above old Theames,
  As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreames;
  Where in a worthy scorne he dares refuse
  All other Gods, and makes the thing his Muse;
  Where he calls passions up, and layes them so,
  As spirits, aw'd by him to come and go;
  Where the free Author did what e're he would,
  And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.
    No vast uncivill bulke swells any Scene,
  The strength's ingenious, a[n]d the vigour cleane;
  None can prevent the Fancy, and see through
  At the first opening; all stand wondring how
  The thing will be untill it is; which thence
  With fresh delight still cheats, still takes the sence;
  The whole designe, the shadowes, the lights such
  That none can say he shelves or hides too much:_
  _Businesse growes up, ripened by just encrease,
  And by as just degrees againe doth cease,
  The heats and minutes of affaires are watcht,
  And the nice points of time are met, and snatcht:
  Nought later then it should, nought comes before,
  Chymists, and Calculators doe erre 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_ Johnsons _grave, and_ Shakespeares _lighter sound
  His muse so steer'd that something still was found,
  Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his owne,
  That 'twas his marke, and he was by it knowne.
  Hence did he take true judgements, hence did strike,
  All pallates some way, though not all alike:
  The god of numbers might his numbers crowne,
  And listning to them wish they were his owne.
    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 overflow'd thy scenes, that ere 'twas fit
  To come upon the Stage,_ Beaumont _was faine
  To bid thee be more dull, that's write againe,
  And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came
  In a cleare, 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 spunge, and did contract
  Thy plenty to lesse wit to make't exact:
  Yet we through his corrections could see
  Much treasure in thy superfluity,
  Which was so fil'd away, as when we doe
  Cut Jewels, that that's lost is jewell too:
  Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know
  By losing makes the streame thence wealthy grow.
  They who doe on thy worker severely sit,
  And call thy store the over-births of wit,
  Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when
  Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen
  Had no fault but abundance, which did lay
  Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play;
  And hence doe grant, that what they call excesse
  Was to be reckon'd as thy happinesse,
  From whom wit issued in a full spring-tide;
  Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside._
  _For that thou couldst thine owne free fancy binde
  In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd
  As to observe the rules of Art, which sway
  In the contrivance of a true borne Play:
  These workes proclaime which thou didst write retired
  From_ Beaumont, _by none but thy selfe inspired;
  Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,
  Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit,
  But like to_ Durers _Pencill, which first knew
  The lawes of faces, and then faces drew:
  Thou knowst the aire, the colour, and the place,
  The simetry, which gives a Poem grace:
  Parts are so fitted unto parts, as doe
  Shew thou hadst wit, and Mathematicks too:
  Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispence,
  And didst beget just Comedies from thence:
  Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,
  That they (their owne Black-Friers) unacted breath._
  Johnson _hath writ things lasting, and divine,
  Yet his Love-Scenes,_ Fletcher, _compar'd to thine,
  Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,
  As heat with Ice, or warme fires mixt with Snow;
  Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts,
  Which burne, and raigne in noble Lovers hearts,
  Hast cloath'd affections in such native tires,
  And so describ'd them in their owne true fires;
  Such moving sighes, suc[h] undissembled teares,
  Such charmes of language, such hopes mixt with feares,
  Such grants after denialls, such pursuits
  After despaire, such amorous recruits,
  That some who sate spectators have confest
  Themselves transformed to what they saw exprest,
  And felt such shafts steale through their captiv'd sence,
  As made them rise Parts, and goe Lovers thence.
  Nor was thy stile wholly compos'd of Groves,
  Or the soft straines of Shepheards and their Loves;
  When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth
  In that kinde, came into the world all mirth,
  All point, all edge, all sharpnesse; we did sit
  Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,
  Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubt
  In which Scene we laught most two shillings out._
  Shakespeare _to thee was dull, whose best jest lyes
  I'th Ladies questions, and the Fooles replyes;
  Old fashioned wit, which walkt from town to town
  In turn'd Hose, which our fathers call'd the Clown;
  Whose wit our nice times would obsceannesse call,
  And which made Bawdry passe for Comicall:_
  _Nature was all his Art, thy veine was free
  As his, but without his scurility;
  From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplext,
  But without labour cleane, chast, and unvext.
  Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who
  Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;
  Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealth
  In Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth;
  Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes,
  Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes,
  Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,
  But to their Benefactors dole aspires.
  Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy selfe to praise
  Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes
  Didst write stale commendations to thy Booke,
  Which we for_ Beaumonts _or_ Ben. Johnsons _tooke:
  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 acutenesse, and such witt,
  As would aske 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 appeares,
    Witt's a Disease consumes men in few yeares._

                                              RICH. CORBET. D.D.


To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)

  _How I doe love thee_ BEAUMONT, _and thy_ Muse,
  _That unto me do'st such religion use!
  How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
  The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
  At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
  And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
  What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
  What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
  When even there where most than praisest me,
  For writing better, I must envy thee._

                                             BEN: JOHNSON.


Upon Master FLETCHERS Incomparable Playes.

  _Apollo sings, his harpe resounds; give roome,
  For now behold the golden Pompe is come,
  Thy Pompe of Playes which thousands come to see,
  With admiration both of them and thee,
  O Volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover
  To be with juice of Cedar washt 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 swoone, and Maides to dye for love.
  Love lyes a bleeding here,_ Evadne _there
  Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where,
  Here's a_ mad lover, _there that high designe
  Of_ King and no King (_and the rare Plot thine_)
  _So that when 'ere wee circumvolve our Eyes,
  Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varietyes,
  Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see
  None writes lov's 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 Bayes,
  They_ Canton _thy vast Wit to build small_ Playes:
  _He comes! his_ Volume _breaks through clowds and dust,
  Downe, little Witts, Ye must refund, Ye must._
    _Nor comes he private, here's great_ BEAUMONT _too,
  How could one single World encompasse Two?
  For these Co-heirs had equall power to teach
  All that all Witts both can and cannot reach._
  Shakespear _was early up, and went so drest
  As for those_ dawning _houres he knew was best;
  But when the Sun shone forth,_ You Two _thought fit
  To weare just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.
  Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must looke for New,
  Manners and Scenes may alter, but not_ You;
  _For Yours are not meere_ Humours, _gilded straines;
  The Fashion lost, Your massy_ Sense _remaines.
    Some thinke Your Witts of two Complexions fram'd,
  That One the_ Sock, _th'Other the_ Buskin _claim'd;
  That should the Stage_ embattaile _all it's Force,_
  FLETCHER _would lead the Foot,_ BEAUMONT _the Horse.
  But, you were Both for Both; not Semi-witts,
  Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:
  Y'are not Two_ Faculties (_and one_ Soule _still)
  But th'_ Understanding, _Thou the quick free_ Will;
  _But, as two_ Voyces _in one Song embrace,_
  (FLETCHER'S _keen_ Trebble, _and deep_ BEAUMONTS Base)
  _Two, full, Congeniall Soules; still Both prevail'd;
  His Muse and Thine were_ Quarter'd _not_ Impal'd:
  _Both brought Your Ingots, Both toil'd at the Mint,
  Beat, melted, sifted, till no drosse stuck in't,
  Then in each Others scales weighed every graine,
  Then smooth'd and burnish'd, then weigh'd all againe,
  Stampt Both your Names upon't by one bold Hit,
  Then, then'twas Coyne, as well as Bullion-Wit.

    Thus Twinns: But as when Fate one Eye deprives,
  That other strives to double which survives:
  So_ BEAUMONT _dy'd: yet left in Legacy
  His Rules and Standard-wit_ (FLETCHER) _to Thee.
  Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon,
  A Two-horn'd_ Crescent _then, now one_ Full-moon.
  _Joynt_ Love _before, now_ Honour _doth provoke;
  So th' old Twin_-Giants _forcing a huge Oake
  One slipp'd his footing, th' Other sees him fall,
  Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all.
  Imperiall_ FLETCHER! _here begins thy Raigne,
  Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain;
  Thy swift dispatching Soule no more doth stay
  Then He that built two Citties in one day;
  Ever brim full, and sometimes running o're
  To feede poore languid Witts that waite at doore,
  Who creep and creep, yet ne're above-ground 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 Sence, such as the_ Poet _ought,
  For_ Poems _if not Excellent, are Naught;
  Low wit in Scenes? in state a Peasant goes;
  If meane and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose,
  That such may spell as are not Readers grown,
  To whom He that writes Wit, shews he hath none._
    _Brave_ Shakespeare _flow'd, yet had his Ebbings too,
  Often above Himselfe, sometimes below;
  Thou Alwayes Best; if ought seem'd to decline,
  'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine:
  Thus thy faire_ SHEPHEARDESSE, _which the bold Heape
  (False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,_
  _Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd,
  At wont 'twas worth_ two hundred thousand pound.
    _Some blast thy_ Works _lest we should track their Walke
  Where they steale all those few good things they talke;
  Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,
  For Plundered folkes ought to be rail'd upon;
  But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth)
  Thy strong Sence_ pall's _when they purloine it forth.
  When did'st_ Thou _borrow? wkere's the man e're read
  Ought begged by_ Thee _from those Alive or Dead?
  Or from dry_ Goddesses, _as some who when
  They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.
  Thou was't thine_ owne _Muse, and hadst such vast odds
  Thou out-writ'st him whose verse_ made _all those_ Godds:
  _Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,
  As much as_ Greeks _or_ Latines _thee in yeares:
  Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms,
  We ebbe downe dry to pebble_-Anagrams;
  _Dead and insipid, all despairing sit
  Lost to behold this great_ Relapse _of_ Wit:
  _What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)
  Till_ Johnson _made good Poets and right Verse.
    Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke,
  Save when she'd show how scurvily they looke;
  No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
  Thou dost_ display, _not_ butcher _a Conceit;
  Thy Nerves have_ Beauty, _which Invades and Charms;
  Lookes like a Princesse harness'd in bright Armes.
    Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do
  Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;
  Tearing themselves, and almost split their braine
  To render harsh what thou speak'st free and cleane;
  Such gloomy Sense may pass for_ High _and_ Proud,
  _But true-born Wit still flies_ above _the_ Cloud;
  _Thou knewst 'twas_ Impotence _what they call_ Height;
  _Who blusters strong i'th Darke, but_ creeps _i'th Light.
    And as thy thoughts were_ cleare, _so_, Innocent;
  _Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;
  Slaunderst not_ Lawes, _prophan'st no_ holy Page,
  (_As if thy Fathers_ Crosier _aw'd the Stage_;)
  _High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
  To prosper out_ foure Acts, _were plagu'd i'th_ Fift:
  _All's safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,
  Nor_ swoln, _nor_ flat, _a True Full Naturall veyne;
  Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skinn'd,
  Not all unlac'd, nor City-startcht and pinn'd.
  Thou hadst no Sloath, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
  But_ Strength _and_ Mirth, FLETCHER'S _a_ Sanguin _Wit_.
    _Thus, two great_ Consul-_Poets all things swayd,
  Till all was_ English _Borne or_ English _Made:_
  Miter _and_ Coyfe _here into One Piece spun_,
  BEAUMONT _a_ Judge's, _This a_ Prelat's _sonne.
  What Strange Production is at last displaid,
  (Got by Two Fathers, without Female aide)
  Behold, two_ Masculines _espous'd each other_,
    Wit _and the World were born without a_ Mother.

                                                          J. BERKENHEAD.


To the memorie of Master _FLETCHER._

  _There's nothing gained by being witty: Fame
  Gathers but winde to blather up a name_.
  Orpheus _must leave his lyre, or if it be
  In heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony,
  And stones, that follow'd him, may now become
  Now stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb.
  The Theban_ Linus, _that was ably skil'd
  In Muse and Musicke, was by_ Phoebus _kill'd,
  Though_ Phoebus _did beget him: sure his Art
  Had merited his balsame, not his dart.
    But here_ Apollo's _jealousie is seene,
  The god of Physicks troubled with the spleene;
  Like timerous 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_ Elizium.
    _But the same Ostracisme benighted one,
  To whom all these were but illusion;
  It tooke our_ FLETCHER _hence_, Fletcher, _whose wit
  Was not an accident to th' soule, but It;
  Onely diffused. (Thus wee the same Sun call,
  Moving it'h Sphaere, and shining on a wall.)
  Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climbe,
  Wit, that ne're grew, but only show'd by time.
  No fier-worke of sacke, no seldome show'n
  Poeticke rage, but still in motion:
  And with far more then Sphericke excellence
  It mov'd, for 'twas its owns Intelligence.
  And yet so obvious to sense, so plaine,
  You'd scarcely thinke't allyd unto the braine:_
  _So sweete, it gained more ground upon the Stage
  Then_ Johnson _with his selfe-admiring rage
  Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell,
  That fooles would think, that they could doe as well.
    This is our losse: yet spight of_ Phoebus, _we
  Will keepe our_ FLETCHER, _for his wit is He_.

                                                               EDW. POWELL.


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

  _What's all this preparation for? or why
  Such suddain Triumphs?_ FLETCHER _the people cry!
  Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits run
  Claret, as here the spouts flow_ Helicon;
  _See, every sprightfull_ Muse _dressed trim and gay
  Strews hearts and scatters roses in his way.
    Thus th'outward yard set round with_ bayes _w'have seene,
  Which from the garden hath transplanted been:
  Thus, at the Praetor's feast, with needlesse costs
  Some must b'employd in painting of the posts:
  And some as dishes made for sight, not taste,
  Stand here as things for shew to_ FLETCHERS _feast.
  Oh what an honour! what a Grace 'thad beene
  T'have had his Cooke in_ Rollo _serv'd them in!_
    FLETCHER _the King of Poets! such was he,
  That earned all tribute, claimed all soveraignty;
  And may he that denye's it, learn to blush
  At's_ loyall Subject, _starve at's_ Beggars bush:
  _And if not drawn by example, shame, nor Grace,
  Turne o've to's_ Coxcomb, _and the Wild-goose Chase.
    Monarch of Wit! great Magazine of wealth!
  From whose rich_ Banke, _by a Promethean-stealth,
  Our lesser flames doe blaze! His the true fire,
  When they like Glo-worms, being touch'd, expire,
  'Twas first beleev'd, because he alwayes was,
  The_ Ipse dixit, _and_ Pythagoras
  _To our Disciple-wits; His soule might run
  (By the same-dream't-of Transmigration)
  Into their rude and indigested braine,
  And so informe their Chaos-lump againe;
  For many specious brats of this last age
  Spoke_ FLETCHER _perfectly in every Page.
  This rowz'd his Rage to be abused thus:
  Made'_s Lover mad, Lieutenant humerous.
  _Thus_ Ends of Gold and Silver-men _are made
  (As th'use to say) Goldsmiths of his owne trade;
    Thus_ Rag-men _from the dung-hill often hop,
    And publish forth by chance a Brokers shop:
  But by his owne light, now, we have descri'd
  The drosse, from that hath beene so purely tri'd_.
  Proteus _of witt! who reads him doth not see
  The manners of each sex of each degree!
  His full stor'd fancy doth all humours fill
  From th'_Queen _of_ Corinth _to_ the maid o'th mill;
  _His_ Curate, Lawyer, Captain, Prophetesse
  _Shew he was all and every one of these;
  Hee taught (so subtly were their fancies seized)_
  To Rule a Wife, and yet the Women pleas'd.
    Parnassus _is thine owne, Claime'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 selfe and unpropt name,
  As Rivers Rivers entertaine,
  But still fall single into th'maine,
  So doth the Moone in Consort shine
  Yet flowes alone into its mine,
  And though her light be joyntly throwne,
  When she makes silver tis her owne:
  Perhaps his quill flew stronger, when
  Twas weaved with his_ Beaumont's _pen;
  And might with deeper wonder hit,
  It could not shew more his, more wit;
  So Hercules came by sexe and Love,
  When Pallas sprang from single Jove;
  He tooke his_ BEAUMONT _for Embrace,
  Not to grow by him, and increase,
  Nor for support did with him twine,
  He was his friends friend, not his vine.
  His witt with witt he did not twist
  To be Assisted, but t' Assist.
  And who could succour him, whose quill
  Did both Run sense and sense Distill?
  Had Time and Art in't, and the while
  Slid even as theirs wh'are only style,
  Whether his chance did cast it so
  Or that it did like Rivers flow
  Because it must, or whether twere
  A smoothnesse from his file and care,
  Not the most strict enquiring nayle
  Cou'd e're finde where his piece did faile
  Of entyre onenesse; so the frame,
  Was Composition, yet the same.
    How does he breede his Brother! and
  Make wealth and estate understand?
  Sutes Land to wit, makes Lucke match merit,
  And makes an Eldest fitly inherit:
  How was he _Ben_, when _Ben_ did write
  Toth' stage, not to his judge endite?
  How did he doe what _Johnson_ did.
  And Earne what _Johnson_ wou'd have s'ed?

                                    Jos. Howe of Trin. Coll. Oxon.


  Master _John Fletcher_ his dramaticall
  Workes now at last printed.

  I Could prayse _Heywood_ now: or tell how long,
  _Falstaffe_ from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:
  But for a _Fletcher_, I must take an Age,
  And scarce invent the Title for one Page.
  Gods must create new Spheres, that should expresse
  The sev'rall Accents, _Fletcher_, of thy Dresse:
  The Penne of Fates should only write thy Praise:
  And all _Elizium_ for thee turne to Bayes.
  Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they.
  Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play,
  And search the _Ephemerides_ to finde,
  When the Aspect for Poets will be kinde.
  Thy Poems (sacred Spring) did from thee flow,
  With as much pleasure, as we reads them now.
  Nor neede we only take them up by fits,
  When love or Physicke hath diseased our Wits;
  Or constr'e English to untye a knot.
  Hid in a line, farre subtler then the Plot.
  With Thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes,
  And yet with thee the serious Student Rise:
  The Eye at sev'rall angles darting rayes,
  Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Playes
  To ev'ry understanding still appeare,
  As if thou only meant'st to take that Eare;
  The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,
  Where ev'ry word ha's weight and yet no Noise,
  The matter too so nobly fit, no lesse
  Then such as onely could deserve thy Dresse:
  Witnesse thy Comedies, Pieces of such worth,
  All Ages shall still like, but ne're bring forth.
  Other in season last scarce so long time,
  As cost the Poet but to make the Rime:
  Where, if a Lord a new way do's but spit,
  Or change his shrugge 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 finde,
  Not whilst an humours living, but Man-kinde.
  Thou, like thy Writings, Innocent and Cleane,
  Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scaene,
  None of thy Inke had gall, and Ladies can,
  Securely heare thee sport without a Fanne.
           But when Thy Tragicke Muse would please to rise
  In Majestie, 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 feele
  The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele!
  Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knows
  When the Spectators ran to save the blow?
  Frozen with griefe we could not stir away
  Untill the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.
  What shall I doe? all Commendations end,
  In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?
  Give me thy spirit quickely, for I swell,
  And like a raveing Prophetesse cannot tell
  How to receive thy Genius in my breast:
  Oh! I must sleepe, and then I'le sing the rest.

                                            T. Palmer of Ch. Ch. Oxon.


Upon the unparalelld Playes written by those Renowned Twinnes of Poetry
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

  What's here? another Library of prayse,
  Met in a Troupe t'advance contemned Playes
  And bring exploded Witt againe in fashion?
  I can't but wonder at this Reformation,
  _My skipping soule surfets with so much good,
  To see my hopes into_ fruition _budd.
  A happy_ Chimistry! _blest viper_, joy!
  _That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way!
    Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect
  In spight of_ Ignorance _the Architect
  Of Occidentall_ Poesye; _and turne
  Godds, to recall_ witts _ashes from their urne.
  Like huge_ Collosses _they've together mett
  Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt.
    The tale of_ Atlas (_though of truth it misse_)
  _We plainely read_ Mythologiz'd _in this_;
  Orpheus _and_ Amphion _whose undying stories
  Made_ Athens _famous, are but_ Allegories.
  _Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilize
  Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees,
  I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall)
  That witt is past its_ Climactericall;
  _And though the_ Muses _have beene dead and gone
  I know they'll finde a_ Resurrection.
      _Tis vaine to prayse; 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 showes himselfe a witt, who but admires.
  Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,
  The very_ Anagrams _of Eloquence,
  Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,
  Being rightly spelld, but Witts_ Stenographie.
  _Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,
  Only cesura'd to spin out the time.
  But heer's a_ Magazine _of purest sence
  Cloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence.
  Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veines
  Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines.
  Lines like their_ Authours, _and each word of it
  Does say twas writ b' a_ Gemini _of Witt.
    How happie is our age! how blest our men!
  When such rare soules live themselves o're agen.
  We erre, that thinke a Poet dyes; for this,
  Shewes that tis but a_ Metempsychosis.
  BEAUMONT _and_ FLETCHER _here at last we see
  Above the reach of dull mortalitie,
    Or pow'r of fate: thus the proverbe hitts
  (Thats so much crost) These men live by their witts_.

                                                            ALEX. BROME.


On the Death and workes of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

  _My name, so far from great, that tis not knowne,
  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 teare.
  I'de have a State of Wit convoked, which hath
  A power to take up on common Faith;
  That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome's spent
  In but preparative to thy Monument,
  The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayes
  To get new contribution to thy prayse,
  And reare it high, and equall to thy Wit
  Which must give life and Monument to it.
  So when late_ ESSEX _dy'd, the Publicke face
  Wore sorrow in't, and to add mournefull Grace
  To the sad pomp of his lamented fall,
  The Common wealth served at his Funerall
  And by a Solemne Order built his Hearse.
  But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse,
  Where thy advanced Image safely stands
  Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands.
  Base hands how impotently you disclose
  Your rage 'gainst_ Camdens _learned ashes, whose
  Defaced Statua and Martyrd booke,
  Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke._
  Nonnulla desunt's _legibly appeare,
  So truly now_ Camdens Remaines _lye there.
  Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath
  Of fame shall speake his great_ Elizabeth!
  _'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath,_
  Brittannia _is the Tombe and Epitaph.
  Thus Princes honours: but Witt only gives
  A name which to succeeding ages lives.
  Singly we now consult our selves 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 Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots
  And gathers growth and moysture from its roots;
  About its armes the thankfull clusters cling
  Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling
  The blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haire
  Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.
  So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe
  Borrow support and strength and lend but show._
  _And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun
  Strongly begets upon our passion.
  Making our sorrow teeme with Elegie,
  Thou yet unwep'd, and yet unprais'd might'st be.
  But th' are imperfect births; and such are all
  Produc'd by causes not univocall,
  The scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit,
  And hence our verse speakes only Mother wit.
  Oh for a fit o'th Father! for a Spirit
  That might but parcell of thy worth inherit;
  For but a sparke of that diviner fire
  Which thy full breast did animate and inspire;
  That Soules could be divided, thou traduce
  But a small particle of thine to us!
  Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sit
  But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit;
  When it had plummets hung on to suppresse
  It's too luxuriant growing mightinesse:
  Till as that tree which scornes to bee kept downe,
  Thou grewst to govern the whole Stage alone.
  In which orbe thy throng'd 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 witt
  As men in a disease; thy Phansie cleare,
  Muse chast, as those frames whence they tooke their fire;
  No spurious composures amongst thine
  Got in adultery 'twixt Witt and Wine.
  And as th' Hermeticall Physitians 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 flye
  In storme and thunder through th' amazed skie;
  Speaking but th'Ills and Villanies in a State,
  Which fooles admire, and wise men tremble at,
  Full of portent and prodigie, whose Gall
  Oft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall.
  Nature us'd 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 skilfull hand crimes lockt close up i'th heart.
  Thou couldst unfold darke Plots, and shew that path
  By which Ambition climbed to Greatnesse hath._
  _Thou couldst the rises, turnes, and falls of States,
  How neare they were their Periods and Dates;
  Couldst mad the Subject into popular rage,
  And the grown seas of that great storme asswage,
  Dethrone usurping Tyrants, and place there
  The lawfull Prince and true Inheriter;
  Knewst all darke turnings in the Labyrinth
  Of policie, which who but knowes he sinn'th,
  Save thee, who un-infected didst walke in't
  As the great Genius of Government.
  And when thou laidst thy tragicke buskin by
  To Court the Stage with gentle Comedie,
  How new, how proper th' humours, how express'd
  In rich variety, how neatly dress'd
  In language, how rare Plots, what strength of Wit
  Shin'd in the face and every limb of it!
  The Stage grew narrow while thou grewst to be
  In thy whole life an_ Exc'llent Comedie.
    _To these a Virgin-modesty which first met
  Applause with blush and feare, as if he yet
  Had not deserv'd; till bold with constant praise
  His browes admitted the unsought for Bayes.
  Nor would he ravish fame; but left men free
  To their owne Vote and Ingenuity.
  When His faire_ Shepherdesse _on the guilty Stage,
  Was martir'd betweene Ignorance and Rage;
  At which the impatient Vertues of those few
  Could judge, grew high, cri'd Murther; though he knew
  The innocence and beauty of his Childe,
  Hee only, as if unconcerned, smil'd.
  Princes have gather'd since each scattered grace,
  Each line and beauty of that injur'd face;
  And on th'united parts breath'd such a fire
  As spight of Malice she shall ne're expire.
    Attending, not affecting, thus the crowne
  Till every hand did help to set it on,
  Hee came to be sole Monarch, and did raign
  In Wits great Empire, absolute Soveraign.

                                                            JOHN HARRIS.


On MR. JOHN FLETC[H]ER's ever to be admired Dramaticall Works.

  _I've thought upon't; and thus I may gaine bayes,
  I will commend thee_ Fletcher, _and thy Playes.
  But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
  Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
  There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
  And passe it'h Croud 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 furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage.
  You who the Poet and the Actors fright,
  Least that your Censure thin the second night:
  Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
  There ere was solaecisme in_ FLETCHERS _Inke?
  Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?
  A happinesse not still alow'd to_ Ben!
  _After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost
  He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste.
  Inspired_, FLETCHER! _here's no vaine-glorious words:
  How ev'n 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! Ladies can't say
  Though_ Stephen _miscarri'd that so did the play:
  Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
  That_ Lowen, Tailor, _ere could grace thy Scene:
  'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
  Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
  Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
  Stuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
  The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
  Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to intice,
  How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded,
  And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?
    Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit,
  Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit.
  And many a she that to he tane up came,
  Tooke up themselves, and after left the game._

                                                 HENRY HARINGTON.


To the memory of the deceased but ever-living _Authour_ in these his
_Poems_, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.

  _On the large train of_ Fletchers _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 ranke 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 looke
  To have their lines set before_ Fletchers _Booke;
  Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse;
  Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse,
  And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint
  To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
  You, that are here before me Gentlemen,
  And Princes of_ Parnassus _by the Penne
  And your just Judgements of his worth, that have
  Preserved this_ Authours _mem'ry 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 versifie
  In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,
  I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.
  I am admitted. Now, have at the Rowt
  Of those that would crowd in, but must keepe out.
  Beare back, my Masters; Pray keepe backe; Forbeare:
  You cannot, at this time, have entrance here.
  You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,
  Finde 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 onely upon trust, or by report
  Have taken_ Fletcher _up, and thinke it trim
  To have their Verses planted before Him:
  Let them read first his Works, and learne to know him,
  And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.
  But farre from hence be such, as would proclaim
  Their knowledge of this_ Authour, _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
  Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
  As formerly, before_ Tom Coryate,
  _Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
  To perish: For the Witty Coppies tooke
  Of his_ Encomiums _made themselves a_ Booke.
  _Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,
  Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too
  In other Spheres:) For_ Fletchers _flourishing Bayes
  Must never fade while_ Phoebus _weares his Rayes.
  Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.
  Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?
  Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?
  And stil'd (at best) the_ Muses _Serving-creature?_
  _Doe you comptroll? Y'have had your Jere: Sirs, no;
  But, in an humble manner, let you know
  Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
  T' informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,
  What they inherit; and how well their Dads
  Left one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.
  And from departed Poets I can guesse
  Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.
  'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile,
  And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle,
  Till with his Swingle he his Noddle breake;
  While this of_ Fletcher _and his_ Works _I speake:
  His_ Works (_says_ Momus) _nay, his_ Plays _you'd say:
  Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play
  Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
  He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
  His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
  That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
  Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines
  Upon the_ Stage; _and shall to th'_ Stationers _gaines
  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-shews _her own sad_ Tragedy.
  _'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,
  Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood._
  _But to the Man againe, of whom we write,
  The_ Writer _that made Writing his Delight,
  Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,
  To beget_ Wit, _or manage it: nor trudge
  To Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
  Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
  He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, know
  The common talke that from his Lips did flow,
  And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,
  Then 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_ Sonne)
  _In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done_
  His very Selfe. _I knew him till he dyed;
  And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
  Of sorrow overwhelm'd the_ Stage; _which gave
  Volleys of sighes 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 yeere, our famous_ Fletcher _fell,
  Of good King_ Charles _who graced these_ Poems _well,
  Being then in life of Action: But they dyed
  Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
  As is their_ Poet. _Now at the Report
  Of the_ Kings _second comming to his Court,
  The_ Bookes _creepe from the_ Presse _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 onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love._

                                                          RIC. BROME.


Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN FLETCHERS workes.

  _What meanes this numerous Guard? or do we come
  To file our Names or Verse upon the Tombe
  Of_ Fletcher, _and by boldly making knowne
  His Wit, betray the Nothing of our Owne?
  For if we grant him dead, it is as true
  Against our selves, No Wit, no Poet now;
  Or if he be returnd from his coole shade,
  To us, this Booke his Resurrection's made,
  We bleed our selves to death, and but contrive
  By our owne Epitaphs to shew him alive.
  But let him live and let me prophesie,
  As I goe Swan-like out, Our Peace is nigh;
  A Balme 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 toyld and vext,
  'Cannot devise what to present 'ye next;
  For, since ye saw no _Playes_ 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 foure_ Witnesses (without my taske)
  Y'have just so many _Playes_ (besides a _Maske_)
  All good (I'me told) as have been _Read_ or _Playd_,
  If this Booke faile, tis time to quit the Trade.

                                                        _H. MOSELEY_.


POST[S]CRIPT.

We forgot to tell the _Reader_, that some _Prologues_ and _Epilogues_
(here inserted) were not written by the _Authours_ of this _Volume_;
but made by others on the _Revivall_ of severall _Playes_. After the
_Comedies_ and _Tragedies_ were wrought off, we were forced (for
expedition) to send the _Gentlemens_ Verses to severall Printers, which
was the occasion of their different Character; but the _Worke_ it selfe
is one continued Letter, which (though very legible) is none of the
biggest, because (as much as possible) we would lessen the Bulke of the
Volume.


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

  _The Mad Lover_.
  _The_ Spanish _Curate_.
  _The little_ French _Lawyer_.
  _The Custome of the Country_.
  _The Noble Gentleman_.
  _The Captaine_.
  _The Beggers Bush_.
  _The Coxcombe_.
  _The False One_.
  _The Chances_.
  _The Loyall Subject_.
  _The Lawes of_ Candy.
  _The Lover's Progresse_.
  _The Island Princesse_.
  _The Humorous Lieutenant_.
  _The Nice Valour_, or _the Passionate Mad Man_.
  _The Maide in the Mill_.
  _The Prophetesse_.
  _The Tragedy of_ Bonduca.
  _The Sea Voyage_.
  _The Double Marriage_.
  _The Pilgrim_.
  _The Knight of_ Malta.
  _The Womans Prize_, or _the Tamer Tamed_.
  _Loves Cure_, or _the Martiall Maide_.
  _The Honest Mans Fortune_.
  _The Queene of_ Corinth.
  _Women Plea'sd_.
  _A Wife for a Moneth_.
  _Wit at severall Weapons_.
  _The Tragedy of_ Valentinian.
  _The Faire Maid of the Inne_.
  _Loves Pilgrimage_.
  _The Maske of the Gentlemen of_ Grayes-Inne,
  _and the_ Inner Temple, _at the
  Marriage of the Prince and Princesse
  Palatine of_ Rhene.
  _Foure Playes (or Morall Representations) in one_.



FIFTY

COMEDIES

AND

TRAGEDIES.



Written by

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

AND

JOHN FLETCHER,

Gentlemen.




All in one Volume.

Published by the Authors Original Copies, the Songs to each Play being
added.

_Si quid habent veri Vatum praesagia, vivam_.

LONDON,

Printed by J. Macock, for John Martyn, Henry Herringman, Richard Marriot,
MDCLXXIX.



THE

BOOK-SELLERS

TO THE

READER.

Courteous Reader, _The First Edition of these Plays in this Volume having
found that Acceptance as to give us Encouragement to make a Second
Impression, we were very desirous they might come forth as Correct as
might be. And we were very opportunely informed of a Copy which an
ingenious and worthy Gentleman had taken the pains (or rather the
pleasure) to read over; wherein he had all along Corrected several faults
(some very gross) which had crept in by the frequent imprinting of them.
His Corrections were the more to be valued, because he had an intimacy
with both our Authors, and had been a Spectator of most of them when they
were Acted in their life-time. This therefore we resolved to purchase at
any Rate; and accordingly with no small cost obtain'd it. From the same
hand also we received several Prologues and Epilogues, with the Songs
appertaining to each Play, which were not in the former Edition, but are
now inserted in their proper places. Besides, in this Edition you have
the addition of no fewer than Seventeen Plays more than were in the
former, which we have taken the pains and care to Collect, and Print out
4to in this Volume, which for distinction sake are markt with a Star in
the Catalogue of them facing the first Page of the Book. And whereas
in several of the Plays there were wanting the Names of the Persons
represented therein, in this Edition you have them all prefixed, with
their Qualities; which will be a great ease to the Reader. Thus every way
perfect and compleat have you, all both Tragedies and Comedies that were
ever writ by our Authors, a Pair of the greatest Wits and most ingenious
Poets of their Age; from whose worth we should but detract by our most
studied Commendations.

If our care and endeavours to do our Authors right (in an incorrupt and
genuine Edition of their Works) and thereby to gratifie and oblige the
Reader, be but requited with a suitable entertainment, we shall be
encouraged to bring_ Ben. Johnson's _two Volumes into one, and publish
them in this form; and also to reprint_ Old Shakespear: _both which are
designed by

Yours_,

Ready to serve you,

JOHN MARTYN. HENRY HERRINGMAN. RICHARD MARIOT.


[The Second Folio contained, between 'The Book-sellers to the Reader' and
'A Catalogue,' eleven only of the Commendatory verses prefixed to the
First Folio. These were those signed by Edw. Waller (see p. xxiii), J.
Denham (p. xxii), Ben. Johnson (p. xl), Rich. Corbet (p. xl), Joh. Earle
(p. xxxii), William Cartwright's first lines (p. xxxvii, to 'Fletcher
_writ_' on p. xxxviii), Francis Palmer (p. xlvii, '_I Could prayse_
Heywood,' etc.), Jasper Maine (p. xxxv), J. Berkenhead (p. xli), Roger
L'Estrange (p. xxviii), Tho. Stanley (p. xxvii).]

  A
  CATALOGUE
  Of all the
  COMEDIES and TRAGEDIES

  Contained in this BOOK, in the same Order as Printed.

  1 The Maids Tragedy.*
  2 _Philaster_; or, Love lies a bleeding.*
  3 A King or no King.*
  4 The Scornful Lady.*
  5 The Custom of the Country.
  6 The Elder Brother.*
  7 The Spanish Curate.
  8 Wit without Money.*
  9 The Beggars Bush.
  10 The Humorous Lieutenant.
  11 The Faithful Shepherdess.*
  12 The Mad Lover.
  13 The Loyal Subject.
  14 Rule a Wife, and have a Wife.*
  15 The Laws of _Candy_.
  16 The False One.
  17 The Little French Lawyer.
  18 The Tragedy of _Valentinian_.
  19 Monsieur _Thomas_.*
  20 The Chances.
  21 _Rollo_, Duke of _Normandy_.*
  22 The Wild-Goose Chase.
  23 A Wife for a Month.
  24 The Lovers Progress.
  25 The Pilgrim.
  26 The Captain.
  27 The Prophetess.
  28 The Queen of _Corinth_.
  29 The Tragedy of _Bonduca_.
  30 The Knight of the Burning Pestle.*
  31 Loves Pilgrimage.
  32 The Double Marriage.
  33 The Maid in the Mill.
  34 The Knight of _Maltha_.
  35 Loves Cure; or, the Martial Maid.
  36 Women pleased.
  37 The Night Walker; or, Little Thief.*
  38 The Womans Prize; or, the Tamer tamed.
  39 The Island Princess.
  40 The Noble Gentleman.
  41 The Coronation.*
  42 The Coxcomb.
  43 Sea-Voyage.
  44 Wit at several Weapons.
  45 The Fair Maid of the Inn.
  46 _Cupids_ Revenge.*
  47 Two Noble Kinsmen.*
  48 _Thierry_ and _Theodoret_.*
  49 The Woman-Hater.*
  50 The nice Valour; or, the Passionate Madman.
  51 The Honest Man's Fortune.

_A Mask at_ Grays-Inn, _and the_ Inner Temple; _Four Plays, or Moral
Representations_.



APPENDIX.

_In the following references to the text the lines are numbered from the
top of the page, including titles, acts, stage directions, &c., but not,
of course, the headline. Where, as in the lists of Persons Represented,
there are double columns, the right-hand column is numbered after the
left._

It has not been thought necessary to record the correction of every
turned letter nor the substitution of marks of interrogation for marks
of exclamation and _vice versa_: the original compositor's stock of
each running low occasionally, he used the two signs somewhat
indiscriminately. Full-stops have been silently inserted at the ends of
speeches and each fresh speaker has been given the dignity of a fresh
line: in the double-columned folio the speeches are frequently run on.
Only misprints of interest in the Quartos are recorded.

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORIE. p. x, l. 8. 1st Folio _prints a comma after_]
not.

TO THE READER. p. xi, l. 6. 1st F _omits the bracket_.

THE STATIONER TO THE READERS. p. xiv, l. 33. 1st F _prints_] confessed
it,

COMMENDATORY VERSES. p. xvii, l. 33. 1st F _misprints_] theirs. l. 41.
1st F _misprints_] Ii. l. 42. 1st F _misprints_] hist.

p. xx, l. 34. 1st F _misprints_] Fle.

p. xxiii, l. 1. 2nd F] sprung.

p. xxvi, l. 21. 1st F _misprints_] Fletcer.

p. xxxvi, l. 10. 1st F _misprints_] solemue.

p. xxxvii, l. 39. 1st F _misprints_] aud. l. 43. 2nd F] delights.

p. xxxviii, l. 4. 2nd F] And these. l. 20. 2nd F _gives signature_]
William Cartwright.

p. xxxix, l. 27. 1st F _misprints_] such.

p. xliii, l. 13. 2nd F] wert. l. 35. 2nd F] knowst.

p. xlviii, l. 33. 2nd F] receive the full god in. l. 35. 2nd F] Francis
Palmer.

p. lii, l. 40. 1st F _misprints_] Fletcer.

p. lv, l. 19. 1st F _misprints_] ehe.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Francis Beaumont and John
Fletcher in Ten Volumes, by Beaumont and Fletcher

*** 