The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes

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 ICome in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?There is no other way, I'le throng to sitAnd 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 thinkThere 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 costHe 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 oneOf 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 sayThough Stephen miscarri'd that so did the play:Judgement could ne're to this opinion leaneThat Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene:'Tis richly good unacted, and to meThy very Farse appears a Comedy.Thy drollery is designe, each looser partStuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an ArtThe Stage has seldome seen; how often viceIs 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 forthIn true and lively colours, as they saw him,And had the best abilities to draw him;Many more are abroad, that write, and lookeTo 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 hintTo try how well their Wits would shew in Print.You, that are here before me Gentlemen,And Princes of Parnassus by the PenneAnd your just Judgements of his worth, that havePreserved 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 IWill deserve here: For where you versifieIn flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.I am admitted. Now, have at the RowtOf 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 knowThe reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:All such must be excluded; and the sort,That onely upon trust, or by reportHave taken Fletcher up, and thinke it trimTo 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 proclaimTheir 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, beforeInferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,As formerly, before Tom Coryate,Whose Worke before his Praysers had the FateTo perish: For the Witty Coppies tookeOf 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 tooIn other Spheres:) For Fletchers flourishing BayesMust 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 knowOld Serving-creatures oftentimes are fitT' informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,What they inherit; and how well their DadsLeft one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.And from departed Poets I can guesseWho 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 PlayWhich was to others braines a toyle: with easeHe playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirsThat have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeresBeen sending forth [t]he issues of their BrainesUpon the Stage; and shall to th' Stationers gainesLife after life take, till some After-ageShall 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 trudgeTo Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleaneOr steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, knowThe 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 HeThat was the Master of his Art and MeMost knowing Johnson (proud to call him Sonne)In friendly Envy swore, He had out-doneHis very Selfe. I knew him till he dyed;And, at his dissolution, what a TideOf sorrow overwhelm'd the Stage; which gaveVolleys 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 dyedSince the Kings absence; or were layd aside,As is their Poët. Now at the ReportOf the Kings second comming to his Court,The Bookes creepe from the Presse to Life, not Action,Crying unto the World, that no protractionMay hinder Sacred Majesty to giveFletcher, 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 comeTo file our Names or Verse upon the TombeOf Fletcher, and by boldly making knowneHis Wit, betray the Nothing of our Owne?For if we grant him dead, it is as trueAgainst 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 contriveBy 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 oneTo 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 attestUnder 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.