The severe statesman quits his sullen form
Of gravity and business; the lukewarm
Religious, his neutrality; the hot
Brainsick illuminate, his zeal; the sot,
Stupidity; the soldier, his arrears;

The court, its confidence; the plebs, their fears;
Gallants, their apishness and perjury;
Women, their pleasure and inconstancy;
Poets, their wine; the usurer, his pelf;
The world, its vanity; and I, my self.

XXII,

ON THE EDITION.

ROGER L'ESTRANGE. 49

FLETCHER (whose fame no age can ever waste;
Envy of ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive again; and with his name
His sacred ashes wak'd into a flame;
Such as before, did by a secret charm
The wildest heart subdue, the coldest warm;
And lend the ladies' eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either heat and light.

He to a sympathy those souls betray'd,
Whom love, or beauty, never could persuade;
And in each mov'd spectator could beget
A real passion by a counterfeit:
When firft Bellario bled, what lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a tear?
And when Aspatia wept, not any eye
But seem'd to wear the same sad livery;
By him inspir'd, the feign'd Lucina drew
More streams of melting sorrow than the true;
But then the Scornful Lady did beguile
Their easy griefs, and teach them all to smile.
Thus he affections could or raise or lay;
Love, grief, and mirth, thus did his charms obey;
He Nature taught her passions to out-do,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likeness seem'd to bear,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.

Yet all had nothing been, obscurely kept
In the same urn wherein his dust hath slept;
Nor had he ris' the Delphic wreath to claim,
Had not the dying scene expir'd his name;
Despair our joy hath doubled, he is come;
Thrice welcome by this post-liminium.

His loss preserv'd him; They, that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the authors to eternize it;

Thus poets are in spite of Fate reviv'd,

And plays by intermission longer-liv'd.

THO. STANLEY.S

"For the same reason that Sir Aston Cockaine's poem is reprinted, Sir Roger Estrange's keeps its place. His name is well known to the learned world, but this copy of Verses does no great honour either to himself or our authors.

SEWARD.

Mr. Stanley educated at Pembroke-Hall, Cambridge, was a poet of some eminence, and his verses have merit; and contain a proof of what is asserted in the Preface, of plays being kept unpublished for the benefit of the players.

VOL. I.

m

SEWARD.

To

XXIII.

To the Memory of the Deceased but ever-living Author, in these his Poems, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.

On the large train of Fletcher's 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 rank and worth,
That have, by strength of Art, set Fletcher forth
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,
And had the best abilities to draw him;
Many more are abroad, that write, and look

To have their lines set before Fletcher's book;

Some, that have known him too; some more, some less;
Some only but by hear-say, some by guess;

And some for fashion-sake would take the hint,
To try how well their wits would shew in print.
You, that are here before me, gentlemen,
And princes of Parnassus by the pen,
And your just judgments of his worth, that have
Preserv'd this author's memory 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 I
Will deserve here: For, where you versify
In flowing numbers, lawful weight, and time,
I'll write, though not rich verses, honest rhime.
I am admitted. Now, have at the rout
Of those that would crowd in, but must keep out.
Bear back, my masters; pray keep back; forbear,
You cannot, at this time, have entrance here.
You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,
Find entertainment at the next impression.
But let none then attempt it, that not know
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:
All such must be excluded; and the sort,

That only upon trust, or by report,

Have taken Fletcher up, and think it trim

To have their verses planted before him:

Let them read first his works, and learn to know him;

And offer, then, the sacrifice they owe him.

But far from hence be such, as would proclaim
Their knowledge of this author, 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 before
Inferior ones thrust in, by many a score:
As formerly, before Tom Coryate,

Whose work, before his praisers, had the fate
To perish: for the witty copies took
Of his encomiums made themselves a look.
Here's no such subject for you to out-do,
Out-shine, out-live, (though well you may do too
In other spheres) for Fletcher's flourishing bays
Must never fade, while Phoebus wears his rays.

Therefore

Therefore forbear to press upon him thus.
Why, what are you, (cry some) that prate to us?
Do not we know you for a flashy meteor?

And stil'd (at best) the muses' serving-creature?
Do you control? Ye've had your jeer: Sirs, no;
But, in an humble manner, let you know,
Old serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T' inform young masters, as in land, in wit,
What they inherit; and how well their dads
Left one, and wish'd the other, to their lads.
And from departed poets I can guess
Who has a greater share of wit, who less.
'Way fool, another says, I let him rail,
And 'bout his own ears flourish his wit-flail,
'Till with his swingle he his noddle break;
While this of Fletcher, and his Works, I speak:
His works? (says Momus) nay, his plays, you'd say:
Thou hast said right, for that to him was play
Which was to others' brains a toil: with ease
He play'd on waves, which were their troubled seas.
His nimble births have longer liv'd than theirs
That have, with strongest labour, divers years
Been sending forth the issues of their brains
Upon the stage; and shall, to th' stationer's gains,
Life after life take, till some after-age

Shall put down printing, as this doth the stage;
Which nothing now presents unto the eye,
But in dumb-show's her own sad tragedy.
'Would there had been no sadder works abroad,
Since her decay, acted in fields of blood!

But to the man again, of whom we write,
The writer that made writing his delight,

Rather than work. He did not pump, nor drudge,

To beget wit, or manage it; nor trudge

To wit-conventions with note-book, to glean,

Or steal, some jests to foist into a scene:

He scorn'd those shifts. You, that have known him, know

The common talk; that from his lips did flow,
And run at waste, did savour more of wit,
Than any of his time, or since, have writ
(But few excepted) in the stage's way:
His scenes were acts, and every act a play.
I knew him in his strength; even then, when he,
That was the master of his art and me,"

5 Master of his art and me.] Mr. Richard Brome was many years a servant to Ben Jonson (an amanuensis, I presume), and learned the art of writing comedy under him : upon this, Ben compliments him in a short poem prefixed to Brome's Northern Lass.

"I had you for a servant once, Dick Brome,

And you perform'd a servant's faithful parts;

Now

you are got into a nearer room

Of fellowship, professing my old arts, &c."

THEOBALD.

And

On the large train of Fl
(Retaining still my won
Become a waiter, in my
As follower to the muse
Many here are of noble
That have, by strength
In true and lively colou
And had the best abilit
Many more are abroad
To have their lines set
Some, that have know
Some only but by hea
And some for fashion-
To try how well their
You, that are here be
And princes of Parnas
And your just judgm
Preserv'd this author'
And made it glorious
Porter it here, 'gains
And are unfit to ent
Will deserve here:
In flowing number
I'll write, though:
I am admitted. I
Of those that wor
Bear back, my m
You cannot, at t
You, that are w
Find entertainm

But let none the
The reverence
All such must
That only upo

Have taken F
To have their
Let them rea

And offer, th
But far from
Their knowl

And such, a
To be the b
Depart hen

Inferior one
As formerly
Whose wor
To perish:
Of his enco

Here's no s
Out-shine,
In other sp
Must never

་ ་ ་

Upon the Printing of Mr. Jons Fund

WHAT means this numerous gardi a 20 2
To file our names, or verse, upon
Of Fletcher, and, by bol making
His wit, betray the nothing of
For, if we grant him dead, it is a the
Against ourselves, no wit, no peer
Or if he be returned from ins cool star
To us, this book his resurrection
We bleed ourselves to death, and be
By our own epitaphs to shew tim sist
But let him live! and let me prast,
As I go swan-like out, our p
A balm unto the wounded ages.
And nothing now is wanting, but tar is

"The Commendatory Poems were printed withered the andate encosumns, and have too little merit to be republ. co

twins upon these obscure poenis, and many means
appeared the best remedy. All are therefore now discribed

dramatic pastoral the Faithful Shepherdess, which LO have been wrote. Beaumont himself now leads in desa biber fin NAZ reader's attention, and these are ranged according to the crimellare sad te wees o on the stare, Beaumont and Jouson, with the spins she d

herd for their stupid ingratitude.

STWARD

amiss to remark, that the first folio had thirty is Can hun whe In addition to the above, which Mr. Seward toches an invece, & DAY: on the Faithful Shepherdess. Of these thirty-even M.Si, one were copied from the first folio; and to these were ad un allere the editors of the second folio selected no more than elevs, la té lll, E added Poem IV. signed J. F. We think that Seward, so far the gate by pecs wr written by Gardiner and Hills, (not because they posek men, but the the mate

preservation, has kept some which might

very

well have been

my judge what respect is due to the testimons of the m

ascribing particular plays to H

wen by the ingenious Mr. Fenton
pf I go swan-like out.] I

M: Shirley was pul

Therefore i
Why, what.

Do not wel
And sid
Do you contr
But, in an hund

XXV.

Dramatic Poems of Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.
R! who's here? Fletcher, long buried,
'Tis he! he's risen from the dead;
ling-sheet put off, walks above ground,
ff his fetters, and is better bound.

he not, if rightly understood,
ys are lawful? he hath made them good.
over Mad? see, here Love's Cure;
ed? to a Wife he may be sure,
ne, for a Month; if she displease,
nish Curate gives a writ of ease.
the Custom of the Country, then

French Lawyer set you free again.
vo Fair Maids take it wondrous ill,
the Inn, the other of the Mill)

Lovers' Progress' stopt, and they defam'd,
hat makes Women Pleas'd, and Tamer Tam'd.
then plays the Corcomb? or will try
at Several Weapons, or else die?
lour, and he doubts not to engage
ble Gentleman, in Love's Pilgrimage,
revenge on the False One, and run
nest Man's Fortune, to be undone
ight of Malta, or else Captain be,
Tumorous Lieutenant; go to sea
age for to starve) he's very loath,

are all at peace, to swear an oath,
n the Loyal Subject may have leave
com Beggar's Bush, and undeceive
ditor, discharge his debts; why so,
e can't pay to Fletcher what we owe?

Ad his Prophetess but tell one Chance,

hat the Pilgrims shall return from France,
ce more make this kingdom, as of late,

man and Princess, and we celebrate

letcher's memory his offering,
dalf Marriage; every one to bring
pus at last unsequesters the stage,
Alback the silver, and the golden age!

ROBERT GARDINER.

to-be-admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER, and his Plays.

thewr's all this preparation for? or why reissudden triumphs? Fletcher, the people cry! the second falso, when kings approach, our conduits run Shendentes Of 2 every sprightful muse, dress'd trim and from de fis fist, as here the spouts flow Helicon:

s herbs and scatters roses in his way.

gay,

us th' outward yard set round with bayes we've seen,

etic ach from the garden hath transplanted been;

suppose Mr. Seward Mr. Shirley certainly was not. reface; but it would be exceedingly unjust to that great man, to at least could be editor of, so incorrect a book.

Thus,