The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes

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 intentTo bring my rubbish to thy monument,To stop some crannies there, but that I foundNo need of least repaire; all firme and sound.Thy well-built fame doth still it selfe advanceAbove 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 greatA Legacy, a Treasure so compleat,That 'twill be hard I feare to prove thy Will:Men will be wrangling, and in doubting stillHow so vast summes of wit were left behind,And yet nor debts nor sharers they can finde.'Twas the kind providence of fate, to lockSome of this Treasure up; and keep a stockFor a reserve untill these sullen daies:When scorn, and want, and danger, are the BaiesThat Crown the head of merit. But now heWho 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 useAs th' ancient priviledge of their free Muse;Yet whether this be leave enough for meTo write, great Bard, an Eulogie for thee:Or whether to commend thy Worke, will standBoth with the Lawes of Verse and of the Land,Were to put doubts might raise a discontentBetween 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 thenFirst 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 swearI[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 refuseTo 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 antedateHis own poore name, and thine annihilate?Shall these be judgements great enough for oneThat 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 tradeWhere 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 sitEnthron'd in their own wills; and if she beeA Laick sister, shee'l straight flie to thee:But if a holy Habit shee have on,Or be some Novice, shee'l scarce looks uponThy Lines at first; but watch Her then a while,And you shall see Her steale a gentle smileUpon thy Title, put thee neerer yet,Breath on thy Lines a whisper, and then setHer voyce up to the measures; then beginTo blesse the houre, and happy state shee's in.Now shee layes by her Characters, and lookesWith a stern eye on all her pretty Bookes.Shee's now thy Voteresse, and the just CrowneShe brings thee with it, is worth half the Towne.I'le send thee to the Army, they that fightWill 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 thoseThat 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-ballOf angry fate, receive thy Pastorall,And from it learn those melancholy strainesFed the afflicted soules of Primitive swaines.Thus the whole World to reverence will flockThy Tragick Buskin and thy Comick Stock;And winged fame unto posterityTransmit but onely two, this Age, and Thee.THOMAS PEYTON.Agricola Anglo-Cantianus.

VERSES

ON THEDeceased Authour, Mr John Fletcher, his Plays; and especially, The Mad LoverWhilst his well organ'd body doth retreat,To its first matter, and the formall heatTriumphant sits in judgement to approvePieces above our Candour and our love:Such as dare boldly venter to appeareUnto the curious eye, and Criticke eare:Lo the Mad Lover in these various timesIs pressed to life, t' accuse us of our crimes.While Fletcher liv'd, who equall to him writSuch lasting Monuments of naturall wit?Others might draw: their lines with sweat, like thoseThat (with much paines) a Garrison inclose;Whilst his sweet fluent veine did gently runneAs uncontrold, and smoothly as the Sun.After his death our Theatres did makeHim in his own unequald Language speake:And now when all the Muses out of theirApproved modesty silent appeare,This Play of Fletchers braves the envious lightAs wonder of our eares once, now our sight.Three and fourfold blest Poet, who the LivesOf Poets, and of Theaters survives!A Groome, or Ostler of some wit may bringHis 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 thoseThat cannot learne, if y' are not Learnings foes,And wilfully resolved to refuseThe gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.From thy great constellation (noble Soule)Looke on this Kingdome, suffer not the wholeSpirit of Poesie retire to Heaven,But make us entertains what thou hast given.Earthquakes and Thunder Diapasons makeThe Seas vast roare, and irresistlesse shakeOf 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 thatMnemosyne's daughter's voyces doe create?Since Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Ayre consentTo make an Harmony (the Instrument,Their man agreeing selves) shall we refuseThe 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 willImitate right, must wonder at thy skill,Best Poet of thy times, or he will proveAs 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 IntercourseTranscends all Rules, and flyes beyond the forceOf the most forward soules; all must submitUntill they reach these Mysteries of Wit.The Intellectuall Language here's exprest,Admir'd in better times, and dares the TestOf 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 ageIn thy whole Works, and may th' Impression callThe Pretor that presents thy Playes to all:Both to the People, and the Lords that swayThat Herd, and Ladies whom those Lords obey.And what's the Loadstone can such guests inviteBut moves on two Poles, Profit and Delight,Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confestWhen every one is tickled with a jest:And that pure Fletcher, able to subdueA Melancholy more then Burton knew.And though upon the by, to his designesThe Native may learne English from his lines,And th' Alien if he can but construe it,May here be made free Denison of wit.But his maine end does drooping Vertue raise,And crownes her beauty with eternall Bayes;In Scænes where she inflames the frozen soule,While Vice (her paint washt off) appeares so foule;She must this Blessed Isle and Europe leave,And some new Quadrant of the Globe deceive:Or hide her Blushes on the Affrike shoreLike 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 statesAs that of King _to Rome) he vindicatesFrom black aspertions, cast upon't by thoseWhich only are inspir'd to lye in prose.And, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,When we name Fletcher shall be so proclaimed,As all that's Royall is when Cæsar's _nam'd.ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.

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

I'le not pronounce how strong and cleane thou writes,Nor by what new hard Rules thou took'st thy Flights,Nor how much Greek and Latin some refineBefore 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 moreStrife for his Sword then all Achilles wore,Such wise just Rage, had Hee been lately trydMy 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 knewTwo 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'tTo call poore Godds and Goddesses to do't;Nor made Nine Girles your Muses (you supposeWomen ne're write, save Love-Letters in prose)But are your owne Inspirers, and have madeSuch 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 WormesHad 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 intireAs now we doe, to see all thine, thine owneIn this thy Muses Resurrection,Whose scattered parts, from thy owne Race, more woundsHath 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 urneLike Ghosts of Murdred bodyes doth returneTo accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,And undeceive the long abused Age,Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy WitGives 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 raiseTrophies to thee from other Mens dispraise;Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruines built,Nor needs thy juster title the foule guiltOf 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 sprongLike 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 bestowOn SHAKESPEARES gentler Muse, in thee full growneTheir Graces both appeare, yet so, that noneCan say here Nature ends, and Art beginsBut 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 SkillAre the two topps of their Pernassus Hill.J. DENHAM.

Upon Mr. John Fletcher's Playes.

Fletcher, to thee, wee doe not only oweAll 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 thineCould purchase Robes to make themselves so fine:What brave Commander is not proud to seeThy brave Melantius in his Gallantry,Our greatest Ladyes love to see their scorneOut done by Thine, in what themselves have worne:Th'impatient Widow ere the yeare be doneSees thy Aspasia weeping in her Gowne:I never yet the Tragick straine assay'dDeterr'd by that inimitable Maid:And when I venture at the Comick stileThy Scornfull Lady seemes to mock my toile:Thus has thy Muse, at once, improv'd and marr'dOur Sport in Playes, by rendring it too hard.So when a sort of lusty Shepheards throwThe barre by turns, and none the rest outgoeSo farre, but that the best are measuring casts,Their emulation and their pastime lasts;But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guardStep in and tosse the Axeltree a yardOr more beyond the farthest Marke, the restDespairing stand, their sport is at the best.EDW. WALLER.

To FLETCHER Reviv'd.

How have I been Religious? what strange GoodHa's scap't me that I never understood?Have I Hell guarded Hæresie o'rethrowne?Heald wounded States? made Kings and Kingdomes one?That Fate should be so mercifull to me,To let me live t'have said I have read thee.Faire Star ascend! the Joy! the Life! the LightOf this tempestuous Age, this darke worlds sight!Oh from thy Crowne of Glory dart one flameMay strike a sacred Reverence, whilest thy Name(Like holy Flamens to their God of Day)We bowing, sing; and whilst we praise, we pray.Bright Spirit! whose Æternall motionOf Wit, like Time still in it selfe did runne;Binding all others in it and did giveCommission, how far this, or that shall live:Like Destinie of Poems, who, as sheSignes death to all, her selfe can never dye.And now thy purple-robed Tragoedie,In her imbroiderd Buskins, calls mine eye,Where brave Atëius we see betrayed, [-Valentinian-]T'obey his Death, whom thousand lives obeyed;Whilst that the Mighty Foole his Scepter breakes,And through his Gen'rals wounds his owne dooms speaks,Weaving thus richly ValentinianThe 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 TheatreA 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 whereAnd 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 noneBut Cupid had Diana's linnen on;And all his naked parts so vail'd, th' expresseThe Shape with clowding the uncomlinesse;That if this Reformation which weReceiv'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 offenceAs cleare, as they are now from Audience.Thus with thy Genius did the Scæne expire,Wanting thy Active and inliv'ning fire,That now (to spread a darknesse over all,)Nothing remaines but Poesie to fall.And though from these thy Embers we receiveSome warmth, so much as may be said, we live,That we dare praise thee, blushlesse, in the headOf 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 rageBefore thy Workes, 'gainst their officious crimeWho print thee now, in the worst scæne of Time.For me, uninterrupted hadst thou sleptAmong the holly shades and close hadst keptThe mistery of thy lines, till men might beeTaught how to reade, and then, how to reade thee.But now thou art expos'd to th' common fate,Revive then (mighty Soule!) and vindicateFrom th' Ages rude affronts thy injured fame,Instruct the Envious, with how chast a flameThou warmst the Lover; how severely justThou 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 PlayWere 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 appeareBold FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear?Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weightYou 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 tornTheir gentle Sock, and lofty Buskins worne,To make their Muse welter up to the chinIn blood; of faigned Scenes no need had bin,England like Lucians Eagle with an ArrowOf her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow,Had bin a Theater and subject fitTo exercise in_ real truth's their wit:Tet none like high-wing'd FLETCHER had bin foundThis 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 springMake 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 NameHis sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;Such as before did by a secret charmeThe 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'dWhom Love or Beauty never could perswade;And in each mov'd spectatour could begetA reall passion by a Counterfeit:When first Bellario bled, what Lady thereDid not for every drop let fall a teare?And when Aspasia wept, not any eyeBut seem'd to weare the same sad livery;By him inspired the feigned Lucina drewMore streams of melting sorrow then the true;But then the Scornfull Lady did beguileTheir 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 keptIn 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.