All ye woods, and trees and bowers,
All you vertues and ye powers
That inhabit in the lakes,
In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet
To our sound,
Whilest we greet
All this ground,
With his honour and his name
That defends our flocks from blame.
He is great, and he is Just,
He is ever good, and must
Thus be honour'd: Daffodillies,
Roses, Pinks, and loved Lillies,
Let us fling,
Whilest we sing,
Ever holy,
Ever holy,
Ever honoured ever young,
Thus great_ Pan _is ever sung. [Exeunt.
Satyr._ Thou divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou m[o]st powerful Maid, and whitest,
Thou most vertuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like _Apollo_, tell me sweetest
What new service now is meetest
For the _Satyr_? shall I stray
In the middle Air, and stay
The sayling Rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the Moon, and gently make
Sute to the pale Queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the Sea,
And bring thee Coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowie fleeces; dearest, shall
I catch the wanton Fawns, or Flyes,
Whose woven wings the Summer dyes
Of many colours? get thee fruit?
Or steal from Heaven old _Orpheus_ Lute?
All these I'le venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.
_Clor_. No other service, _Satyr_, but thy watch
About these thickets, lest harmless people catch
Mischief or sad mischance.
_Satyr_. Holy Virgin, I will dance
Round about these woods as quick
As the breaking light, and prick
Down the Lawns, and down the vails
Faster than the Wind-mill sails.
So I take my leave, and pray
All the comforts of the day,
Such as _Phoebus_ heat doth send
On the earth, may still befriend
Thee, and this arbour.
_Clo_. And to thee,
All thy Masters love be free. [_Exeunt_.
_To my Friend Master_ JOHN FLETCHER _upon his Faithfull Shepherdess._
_I know too well, that, no more than the man
That travels through the burning Desarts, can
When he is beaten with the raging Sun,
Half smothered in the dust, have power to run
From a cool River, which himself doth find,
E're he be slacked; no more can he whose mind
Joyes in the Muses, hold from that delight,
When nature, and his full thoughts bid him write:
Yet wish I those whom I for friends have known,
To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own.
Why should the man, whose wit ne'r had a stain,
Upon the publick Stage present his [vein,]
And make a thousand men in judgment sit,
To call in question his undoubted wit,
Scarce two of which can understand the laws
Which they should judge by, nor the parties cause?
Among the rout there is not one that hath
In his own censure an explicite faith;
One company knowing they judgement lack,
Ground their belief on the next man in black:
Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute,
Some like as he does in the fairest sute,
He as his Mistress doth, and she by chance:
Nor want there those, who as the Boy doth dance
Between the Acts, will censure the whole Play;
Some if the Wax-lights be not new that day;
But multitudes there are whose judgement goes
Headlong according to the Actors cloathes.
For this, these publick things and I, agree
So ill, that but to do a right for thee,
I had not been perswaded to have hurl'd
These few, ill spoken lines, into the world,
Both to be read, and censur'd of, by those,
Whose very reading makes Verse senseless Prose:
Such as must spend above an hour, to spell
A Challenge on a Past, to know it well:
But since it was thy hap to throw away
Much wit, for which the people did not pay,
Because they saw it not, I not dislike
This second publication, which may strike
Their consciences, to see the thing they scorn'd,
To be with so much wit and Art adorned.
Besides one vantage more in this I see,
Tour censurers now must have the qualitie
Of reading, which I am afraid is more
Than half your shrewdest Judges had before._
Fr. Beaumont.
_To the worthy Author_ M'r. Jo. FLETCHER.
_The wise, and many headed_ Bench, _that sits
Upon the Life, and Death of_ Playes, _and_ Wits,
(_Composed of_ Gamester, Captain, Knight, Knight's man,
Lady, _or_ Pusill, _that wears mask or fan_,
Velvet, _or_ Taffata _cap, rank'd in the dark
With the shops_ Foreman, _or some such_ brave spark,
_That may judge for his_ six-pence_) had, before
They saw it half, damn'd thy whole Play, and more,
Their motives were, since it had not to doe
With vices, which they look'd for, and came to.
I, that am glad, thy Innocence was thy Guilt,
And wish that all the_ Muses _blood were spilt
In such a_ Martyrdome, _to vex their eyes,
Do crown thy murdred_ Poeme: _which shall rise
A glorified work to Time, when Fire,
Or mothes shall eat, what all these Fools admire._