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 Sphære, 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 Prætor'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 Scæne,
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 solæcisme 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.