The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes

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 dareRefuse 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 worthThe 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 coverTo 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 moveYoung men to swoone, and Maides to dye for love.Love lyes a bleeding here, Evadne thereSwells with brave rage, yet comely every where,Here's a mad lover, there that high designeOf 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 seeNone 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 teachAll that all Witts both can and cannot reach.Shakespear was early up, and went so drestAs for those dawning houres he knew was best;But when the Sun shone forth, You Two thought fitTo 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 LegacyHis 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 OakeOne 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 stayThen He that built two Citties in one day;Ever brim full, and sometimes running o'reTo 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 ParadiseWhich 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 WalkeWhere 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 readOught begged by Thee from those Alive or Dead?Or from dry Goddesses, as some who whenThey stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.Thou was't thine owne Muse, and hadst such vast oddsThou 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 sitLost 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 doThunder so much, do't without Lightning too;Tearing themselves, and almost split their braineTo 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 shiftTo 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: FameGathers but winde to blather up a name.Orpheus must leave his lyre, or if it beIn heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony,And stones, that follow'd him, may now becomeNow stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb.The Theban Linus, that was ably skil'dIn Muse and Musicke, was by Phoebus kill'd,Though Phoebus did beget him: sure his ArtHad 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 periodTo high grown parts lest he should be no God.Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gaveLife to the world, could not avoid a grave.Hence the inspired Prophets of old RomeToo 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 witWas 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'nPoeticke rage, but still in motion:And with far more then Sphericke excellenceIt 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 StageThen Johnson with his selfe-admiring rageEre 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, weWill 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 whySuch suddain Triumphs? FLETCHER the people cry!Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits runClaret, as here the spouts flow Helicon;See, every sprightfull Muse dressed trim and gayStrews 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 costsSome 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 beeneT'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 blushAt'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 PythagorasTo 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 ageSpoke 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'dThe drosse, from that hath beene so purely tri'd.Proteus _of witt! who reads him doth not seeThe manners of each sex of each degree!His full stor'd fancy doth all humours fillFrom th'_Queen of Corinth to the maid o'th mill;His Curate, Lawyer, Captain, ProphetesseShew 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 fameHis alone selfe and unpropt name,As Rivers Rivers entertaine,But still fall single into th'maine,So doth the Moone in Consort shineYet flowes alone into its mine,And though her light be joyntly throwne,When she makes silver tis her owne:Perhaps his quill flew stronger, whenTwas 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 twistTo be Assisted, but t' Assist.And who could succour him, whose quillDid both Run sense and sense Distill?Had Time and Art in't, and the whileSlid even as theirs wh'are only style,Whether his chance did cast it soOr that it did like Rivers flowBecause it must, or whether twereA smoothnesse from his file and care,Not the most strict enquiring nayleCou'd e're finde where his piece did faileOf entyre onenesse; so the frame,Was Composition, yet the same.How does he breede his Brother! andMake 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 writeToth' 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 expresseThe 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 PlayesTo 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 lesseThen 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 tellPosterity, 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 riseIn 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 feeleThe Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele!Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knowsWhen the Spectators ran to save the blow?Frozen with griefe we could not stir awayUntill 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 tellHow 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 PlayesAnd 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-erectIn spight of Ignorance the ArchitectOf Occidentall Poesye; and turneGodds, to recall witts ashes from their urne.Like huge Collosses they've together mettTheir 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 storiesMade Athens famous, are but Allegories.Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilizeMen, 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 goneI 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 beFound 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 senceCloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence.Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veinesBubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines.Lines like their Authours, and each word of itDoes 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 seeAbove 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 dareTo vex thy Shrine with an unlearned teare.I'de have a State of Wit convoked, which hathA power to take up on common Faith;That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome's spentIn but preparative to thy Monument,The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayesTo get new contribution to thy prayse,And reare it high, and equall to thy WitWhich must give life and Monument to it.So when late ESSEX dy'd, the Publicke faceWore sorrow in't, and to add mournefull GraceTo the sad pomp of his lamented fall,The Common wealth served at his FunerallAnd by a Solemne Order built his Hearse.But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse,Where thy advanced Image safely standsAbove the reach of Sacrilegious hands.Base hands how impotently you discloseYour rage 'gainst Camdens learned ashes, whoseDefaced 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 breathOf 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 givesA 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 VineWith subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twineA friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shootsAnd gathers growth and moysture from its roots;About its armes the thankfull clusters clingLike Bracelets, and with purple ammellingThe blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haireHangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doeBorrow support and strength and lend but show.And but thy Male wit like the youthfull SunStrongly 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 allProduc'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 SpiritThat might but parcell of thy worth inherit;For but a sparke of that diviner fireWhich thy full breast did animate and inspire;That Soules could be divided, thou traduceBut a small particle of thine to us!Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sitBut as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit;When it had plummets hung on to suppresseIt'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 fitThat hung on thee; nor thou far gone in wittAs men in a disease; thy Phansie cleare,Muse chast, as those frames whence they tooke their fire;No spurious composures amongst thineGot in adultery 'twixt Witt and Wine.And as th' Hermeticall Physitians drawFrom things that curse of the first-broken Law,That Ens Venenum, which extracted thenceLeaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence:So was thy Spirit calcined; no Mixtures thereBut perfect, such as next to Simples are.Not like those Meteor-wits which wildly flyeIn 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 GallOft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall.Nature us'd all her skill, when thee she meantA Wit at once both Great and Innocent.Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy judgement, notFor mending one word, a whole sheet to blot.Thou couldst anatomize with ready artAnd skilfull hand crimes lockt close up i'th heart.Thou couldst unfold darke Plots, and shew that pathBy 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 thereThe lawfull Prince and true Inheriter;Knewst all darke turnings in the LabyrinthOf policie, which who but knowes he sinn'th,Save thee, who un-infected didst walke in'tAs the great Genius of Government.And when thou laidst thy tragicke buskin byTo Court the Stage with gentle Comedie,How new, how proper th' humours, how express'dIn rich variety, how neatly dress'dIn language, how rare Plots, what strength of WitShin'd in the face and every limb of it!The Stage grew narrow while thou grewst to beIn thy whole life an Exc'llent Comedie.To these a Virgin-modesty which first metApplause with blush and feare, as if he yetHad not deserv'd; till bold with constant praiseHis browes admitted the unsought for Bayes.Nor would he ravish fame; but left men freeTo 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 fewCould judge, grew high, cri'd Murther; though he knewThe 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 fireAs spight of Malice she shall ne're expire.Attending, not affecting, thus the crowneTill every hand did help to set it on,Hee came to be sole Monarch, and did raignIn Wits great Empire, absolute Soveraign.JOHN HARRIS.

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