Joh. Earle.
UPON Mr FLETCHERS
Incomparable Playes.
The Poet lives; wonder not how or whyFletcherrevives, but that he er'e could dye: SafeMirth,fullLanguage,flow in ev'ry Page, At once he doth bothheightenandaswage;All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and cleare, NorChurchnorLaweswere ever Libel'd here; But faire deductions drawn from his great Braine, Enough to conquer all that'sFalseorVaine;He scatters Wit, and Sence so freely flings That veryCitizensspeake handsome things, Teaching theirWivessuch unaffected grace, TheirLooksare now as handsome as theirFace.Nor is this violent, he steals upon The yeilding Soule untill thePhrensie'sgone;His veryLauncingsdo the Patientplease,As when goodMusickecures aMad Disease.Small Poets rifle Him, yet thinke it faire, Because they rob a man that well can spare; They feed upon him, owe him every bit, Th'are all butSub-excisemenof his Wit.
On the Workes ofBeaumontandFletcher, now at length printed.
Great paire of Authors, whom one equall StarreBegot so like inGenius, _that you areIn Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit,That no man knowes where to divide your wit,Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire,And did each other mutually inspire;Whether one did contrive, the other write,Or one framed the plot, the other did indite;Whether one found the matter, th'other dresse,Or the one disposed what th'other did expresse;Where e're your parts betweene your selves lay, we,In all things which you did but one thred see,So evenly drawne out, so gently spunne,That Art with Nature nere did smoother run.Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what partOf all your numerous Labours hath desertMore to be fam'd then other? shall I say,I've met a lover so drawne in your Play,So passionately written, so inflamed,So jealously inraged, then gently tam'd,That I in reading have the Person seene.And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been?Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbeareTo clap, when I a Captain do meet there,So lively in his owne vaine humour drest,So braggingly, and like himself exprest,That moderne Cowards, when they saw him plaid,Saw, blusht, departed guilty, and betraid?You wrote all parts right; whatsoe're the StageHad from you, was seene there as in the age,And had their equall life: Vices which wereManners abroad, did grow corrected there:They who possest a Box, and halfe Crowns spentTo learne Obscenenes, returned innocent,And thankt you for this coznage, whose chaste SceneTaught Loves so noble, so reformed, so cleane,That they who brought foule fires, and thither cameTo bargaine, went thence with a holy flame.Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and VeyneHeld both to Tragick and to Comick straine;Where e're you listed to be high and grave,No Buskin shew'd more solem[n]e, no quill gaveSuch feeling objects to draw teares from eyes,Spectators sate part in your Tragedies.And where you listed to be low, and free,Mirth turn'd the whole house into Comedy;So piercing (where you pleas'd) hitting a fault,That humours from your pen issued all salt.Nor were you thus in Works and Poems knit,As to be but two halfes, and make one wit;But as some things we see, have double cause,And yet the effect it selfe from both whole drawes;So though you were thus twisted and combindAs two bodies, to have but one faire mindeYet if we praise you rightly, we must sayBoth joyn'd, and both did wholly make the Play,For that you could write singly, we may guesseBy the divided peeces which the PresseHath severally sent forth; nor were gone so(Like some our Moderne Authors) made to goOn meerely by the helpe of the other, whoTo purchase fame do come forth one of two;Nor wrote you so, that ones part was to lickThe other into shape, nor did one stickThe others cold inventions with such wit,As served like spice, to make them quick and fit;Nor out of mutuall want, or emptinesse,Did you conspire to go still twins to th' Presse:But what thus joy tied you wrote, might have come forthAs good from each, and stored with the same worthThat thus united them, you did joyne sense,In you 'twas League, in others impotence;And the Presse which both thus amongst us sends,Sends us one Poet in a faire of friends.
Jasper Maine.
Upon the report of the printing of the Dramaticall Poems of MasterJohnFletcher, collected before, and now set forth in one Volume.
Though when allFletcherwrit, and the entireMan was indulged unto that sacred fire,His thoughts, and his thoughts dresse, appeared both such,That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;Who therefore wisely did submit each birthTo knowingBeaumonte're it did come forth,Working againe untill he said 'twas fit,And made him the sobriety of his wit;Though thus he call'd his Judge into his fame,And for that aid allow'd him halfe the name,'Tis knowne, that sometimes he did stand alone,That both the Spunge and Pencill were his owne;That himselfe judged himselfe, could singly do,And was at lastBeaumontandFletchertoo;Else we had lost hisShepherdesse,a pieceEven and smooth, spun from a finer fleece,Where softnesse raignes, where passions passions greet,Gentle and high, as floods of Balsam meet.Where dressed in white expressions, sit bright Loves,Drawne, like their fairest Queen, by milkie Doves;A piece, whichJohnsonin a rapture bidCome up a glorifi'd Worke, and so it did.Else had his Muse set with his friend; the StageHad missed those Poems, which yet take the Age;The world had lost those rich exemplars, whereArt, Language, Wit, sit ruling in one Spheare,Where the fresh matters soare above old Theames,As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreames;Where in a worthy scorne he dares refuseAll other Gods, and makes the thing his Muse;Where he calls passions up, and layes them so,As spirits, aw'd by him to come and go;Where the free Author did what e're he would,And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.No vast uncivill bulke swells any Scene,The strength's ingenious, a[n]d the vigour cleane;None can prevent the Fancy, and see throughAt the first opening; all stand wondring howThe thing will be untill it is; which thenceWith fresh delight still cheats, still takes the sence;The whole designe, the shadowes, the lights suchThat none can say he shelves or hides too much:Businesse growes up, ripened by just encrease,And by as just degrees againe doth cease,The heats and minutes of affaires are watcht,And the nice points of time are met, and snatcht:Nought later then it should, nought comes before,Chymists, and Calculators doe erre more:Sex, age, degree, affections, country, place,The inward substance, and the outward face;All kept precisely, all exactly fit,What he would write, he was before he writ.'TwixtJohnsonsgrave, andShakespeareslighter soundHis muse so steer'd that something still was found,Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his owne,That 'twas his marke, and he was by it knowne.Hence did he take true judgements, hence did strike,All pallates some way, though not all alike:The god of numbers might his numbers crowne,And listning to them wish they were his owne.Thus welcome forth, what ease, or wine, or witDurst yet produce, that is, whatFletcherwrit.
Another.
Fletcher,though some call it thy fault, that witSo overflow'd thy scenes, that ere 'twas fitTo come upon the Stage,Beaumontwas faineTo bid thee be more dull, that's write againe,And bate some of thy fire, which from thee cameIn a cleare, bright, full, but too large a flame;And after all (finding thy Genius such)That blunted, and allayed, 'twas yet too much;Added his sober spunge, and did contractThy plenty to lesse wit to make't exact:Yet we through his corrections could seeMuch treasure in thy superfluity,Which was so fil'd away, as when we doeCut Jewels, that that's lost is jewell too:Or as men use to wash Gold, which we knowBy losing makes the streame thence wealthy grow.They who doe on thy worker severely sit,And call thy store the over-births of wit,Say thy miscarriages were rare, and whenThou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull PenHad no fault but abundance, which did layOut in one Scene what might well serve a Play;And hence doe grant, that what they call excesseWas to be reckon'd as thy happinesse,From whom wit issued in a full spring-tide;Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside.For that thou couldst thine owne free fancy bindeIn stricter numbers, and run so confin'dAs to observe the rules of Art, which swayIn the contrivance of a true borne Play:These workes proclaime which thou didst write retiredFromBeaumont,by none but thy selfe inspired;Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit,But like toDurersPencill, which first knewThe lawes of faces, and then faces drew:Thou knowst the aire, the colour, and the place,The simetry, which gives a Poem grace:Parts are so fitted unto parts, as doeShew thou hadst wit, and Mathematicks too:Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispence,And didst beget just Comedies from thence:Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,That they (their owne Black-Friers) unacted breath.Johnsonhath writ things lasting, and divine,Yet his Love-Scenes,Fletcher,compar'd to thine,Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,As heat with Ice, or warme fires mixt with Snow;Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts,Which burne, and raigne in noble Lovers hearts,Hast cloath'd affections in such native tires,And so describ'd them in their owne true fires;Such moving sighes, suc[h] undissembled teares,Such charmes of language, such hopes mixt with feares,Such grants after denialls, such pursuitsAfter despaire, such amorous recruits,That some who sate spectators have confestThemselves transformed to what they saw exprest,And felt such shafts steale through their captiv'd sence,As made them rise Parts, and goe Lovers thence.Nor was thy stile wholly compos'd of Groves,Or the soft straines of Shepheards and their Loves;When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birthIn that kinde, came into the world all mirth,All point, all edge, all sharpnesse; we did sitSometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubtIn which Scene we laught most two shillings out.Shakespeareto thee was dull, whose best jest lyesI'th Ladies questions, and the Fooles replyes;Old fashioned wit, which walkt from town to townIn turn'd Hose, which our fathers call'd the Clown;Whose wit our nice times would obsceannesse call,And which made Bawdry passe for Comicall:Nature was all his Art, thy veine was freeAs his, but without his scurility;From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplext,But without labour cleane, chast, and unvext.Thou wert not like some, our small Poets whoCould not be Poets, were not we Poets too;Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealthIn Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth;Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes,Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes,Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,But to their Benefactors dole aspires.Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy selfe to praiseUnder thy friends names, or to purchase BayesDidst write stale commendations to thy Booke,Which we forBeaumontsorBen. Johnsonstooke:That debt thou left'st to us, which none but heCan truly pay,Fletcher,who writes like thee.
William Cartwright.
On Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then newly dead.)
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:BEAUMONTis dead, by whose sole death appeares,Witt's a Disease consumes men in few yeares.
To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)
How I doe love theeBEAUMONT,and thyMuse,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.
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,EvadnethereSwells with brave rage, yet comely every where,Here's amad lover,there that high designeOfKing 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.
On the happy Collection of MasterFLETCHER'SWorks, never beforePRINTED.
FLETCHERarise, Usurpers share thy Bayes,TheyCantonthy vast Wit to build smallPlayes:He comes! hisVolumebreaks through clowds and dust,Downe, little Witts, Ye must refund, Ye must.Nor comes he private, here's greatBEAUMONTtoo,How could one single World encompasse Two?For these Co-heirs had equall power to teachAll that all Witts both can and cannot reach.Shakespearwas early up, and went so drestAs for thosedawninghoures he knew was best;But when the Sun shone forth,You Twothought 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 notYou;For Yours are not meereHumours,gilded straines;The Fashion lost, Your massySenseremaines.Some thinke Your Witts of two Complexions fram'd,That One theSock,th'Other theBuskinclaim'd;That should the Stageembattaileall it's Force,FLETCHERwould lead the Foot,BEAUMONTthe Horse.But, you were Both for Both; not Semi-witts,Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:Y'are not TwoFaculties (and oneSoulestill)But th'Understanding,Thou the quick freeWill;But, as twoVoycesin one Song embrace,(FLETCHER'SkeenTrebble,and deepBEAUMONTS Base)Two, full, Congeniall Soules; still Both prevail'd;His Muse and Thine wereQuarter'dnotImpal'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_ BEAUMONTdy'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'dCrescentthen, now oneFull-moon.JoyntLovebefore, nowHonourdoth provoke;So th' old Twin-Giantsforcing a huge OakeOne slipp'd his footing, th' Other sees him fall,Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all.ImperiallFLETCHER!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 thatBird of ParadiseWhich hathno feetand ever noblyflies:Rich, lusty Sence, such as thePoetought,ForPoemsif 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.BraveShakespeareflow'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 faireSHEPHEARDESSE,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 worthtwo hundred thousand pound.Some blast thyWorkslest 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 Sencepall'swhen they purloine it forth.When did'stThouborrow? wkere's the man e're readOught begged byTheefrom those Alive or Dead?Or from dryGoddesses,as some who whenThey stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.Thou was't thineowneMuse, and hadst such vast oddsThou out-writ'st him whose versemadeall thoseGodds:Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,As much asGreeksorLatinesthee 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 greatRelapseofWit:What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)TillJohnsonmade 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 dostdisplay,notbutchera Conceit;Thy Nerves haveBeauty,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 forHighandProud,But true-born Wit still fliesabovetheCloud;Thou knewst 'twasImpotencewhat they callHeight;Who blusters strong i'th Darke, butcreepsi'th Light.And as thy thoughts werecleare,so, Innocent;Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;Slaunderst notLawes,prophan'st noholy Page,(As if thy FathersCrosieraw'd the Stage;)High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shiftTo prosper outfoure Acts,were plagu'd i'thFift:All's safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,Norswoln,norflat,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,ButStrengthandMirth, FLETCHER'SaSanguinWit.Thus, two greatConsul-Poets all things swayd,Till all wasEnglishBorne orEnglishMade:MiterandCoyfehere into One Piece spun,BEAUMONTaJudge's,This aPrelat'ssonne.What Strange Production is at last displaid,(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aide)Behold, twoMasculinesespous'd each other,Witand the World were born without aMother.
To the memorie of MasterFLETCHER.
There's nothing gained by being witty: FameGathers but winde to blather up a name.Orpheusmust 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 ThebanLinus,that was ably skil'dIn Muse and Musicke, was byPhoebuskill'd,ThoughPhoebusdid beget him: sure his ArtHad merited his balsame, not his dart.But hereApollo'sjealousie 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 oldRomeToo great for earth fled toElizium.But the same Ostracisme benighted one,To whom all these were but illusion;It tooke ourFLETCHERhence, 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 StageThenJohnsonwith 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 ofPhoebus,weWill keepe ourFLETCHER,for his wit is He.
Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His PLAYES.
What's all this preparation for? or whySuch suddain Triumphs?FLETCHERthe people cry!Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits runClaret, as here the spouts flowHelicon;See, every sprightfullMusedressed trim and gayStrews hearts and scatters roses in his way.Thus th'outward yard set round withbayesw'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 toFLETCHERSfeast.Oh what an honour! what a Grace 'thad beeneT'have had his Cooke inRolloserv'd them in!FLETCHERthe King of Poets! such was he,That earned all tribute, claimed all soveraignty;And may he that denye's it, learn to blushAt'sloyall Subject,starve at'sBeggars bush:And if not drawn by example, shame, nor Grace,Turne o've to'sCoxcomb,and the Wild-goose Chase.Monarch of Wit! great Magazine of wealth!From whose richBanke,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,TheIpse dixit,andPythagorasTo 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 ageSpokeFLETCHER _perfectly in every Page.This rowz'd his Rage to be abused thus:Made'_s Lover mad, Lieutenant humerous.ThusEnds of Gold and Silver-menare made(As th'use to say) Goldsmiths of his owne trade;ThusRag-menfrom 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'_QueenofCorinthtothe maid o'th mill;HisCurate, 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 MrJohn Fletcher.
SoFLETCHERnow 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 hisBeaumont'spen;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 hisBEAUMONT _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 heBen, whenBendid writeToth' stage, not to his judge endite?How did he doe whatJohnsondid.And Earne whatJohnsonwou'd have s'ed?
Jos. Howe of Trin. Coll. Oxon.
MasterJohn Fletcherhis dramaticallWorkes now at last printed.
I Could prayseHeywoodnow: or tell how long,Falstaffefrom cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:But for aFletcher, 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 allEliziumfor thee turne to Bayes.Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they.Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play,And search theEphemeridesto 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 PoetryBEAUMONT & 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 intofruitionbudd.A happyChimistry!blest viper, joy!That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way!Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erectIn spight ofIgnorancethe ArchitectOf OccidentallPoesye;and turneGodds, to recallwittsashes from their urne.Like hugeCollossesthey've together mettTheir shoulders, to support a world of Witt.The tale ofAtlas (though of truth it misse)We plainely readMythologiz'din this;OrpheusandAmphionwhose undying storiesMadeAthensfamous, are butAllegories.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 itsClimactericall;And though theMuseshave beene dead and goneI know they'll finde aResurrection.Tis vaine to prayse; they're to themselves a glory,And silence is our sweetestOratory.For he that names butFLETCHERmust needs beFound guilty of a loudhyperbole.His fancy so transcendently aspires,He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires.Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,The veryAnagramsof Eloquence,Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,Being rightly spelld, but WittsStenographie.Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,Only cesura'd to spin out the time.But heer's aMagazineof 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 theirAuthours,and each word of itDoes say twas writ b' aGeminiof 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 aMetempsychosis.BEAUMONTandFLETCHERhere 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.
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 lateESSEXdy'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 'gainstCamdenslearned ashes, whoseDefaced Statua and Martyrd booke,Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke.Nonnulla desunt'slegibly appeare,So truly nowCamdens Remaineslye there.Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breathOf fame shall speake his greatElizabeth!'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath,Brittanniais 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,ThatEns 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 anExc'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 faireShepherdesse _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.
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 theeFletcher,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.Apolloknows 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 inFLETCHERSInke?Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?A happinesse not still alow'd toBen!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 sayThoughStephenmiscarri'd that so did the play:Judgement could ne're to this opinion leaneThatLowen, 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.
To the memory of the deceased but ever-livingAuthourin these hisPoems, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.
On the large train ofFletchersfriends let me(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)Become a Waiter in my ragged verse,As Follower to theMusesFollowers.Many here are of Noble ranke and worth,That have, by strength of Art, setFletcherforthIn 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 beforeFletchersBooke;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 ofParnassusby the PenneAnd your just Judgements of his worth, that havePreserved thisAuthoursmem'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 takenFletcherup, 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 thisAuthour,not his Fame;And such, as would pretend, of all the rest,To be the bestWitsthat have known him best.Depart hence all such Writers, and, beforeInferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,As formerly, beforeTom Coryate,Whose Worke before his Praysers had the FateTo perish: For the Witty Coppies tookeOf hisEncomiumsmade themselves aBooke.Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe tooIn other Spheres:) ForFletchersflourishing BayesMust never fade whilePhoebusweares 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) theMusesServing-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 ofFletcherand hisWorksI speake:HisWorks (saysMomus)nay, hisPlaysyou'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 theStage;and shall to th'StationersgainesLife after life take, till some After-ageShall put downPrinting,as this doth theStage;Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,But inDumb-shewsher own sadTragedy.'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,TheWriterthat made Writing his Delight,Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,To begetWit,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:HisSceneswereActs,and everyActaPlay.I knew him in his strength; even then, whenHeThat was the Master of his Art and MeMost knowingJohnson (proud to call himSonne)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 theStage;which gaveVolleys of sighes to send him to his grave.And grew distracted in most violent Fits(ForShehad lost the best part of herWits.)In the first yeere, our famousFletcherfell,Of good KingCharleswho graced thesePoemswell,Being then in life of Action: But they dyedSince the Kings absence; or were layd aside,As is theirPoët.Now at the ReportOf theKingssecond comming to his Court,TheBookescreepe from thePresseto Life, notAction,Crying unto the World, that no protractionMay hinderSacred Majestyto giveFletcher,in them, leave on theStageto live.Others may more in lofty Verses move;I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love.
Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN FLETCHERS workes.
What meanes this numerous Guard? or do we comeTo file our Names or Verse upon the TombeOfFletcher,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.
As after th'Epiloguethere comes some oneTo tellSpectatorswhat 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 noPlayesthis Cloudy weather,Here we have brought Ye our whole Stock together.'Tis new and all theseGentlemenattestUnder their hands 'tis Right, and of the Best;Thirty foureWitnesses (without my taske)Y'have just so manyPlayes(besides aMaske)All good (I'me told) as have beenReadorPlayd,If this Booke faile, tis time to quit the Trade.
We forgot to tell theReader, that someProloguesandEpilogues(here inserted) were not written by theAuthoursof thisVolume; but made by others on theRevivallof severallPlayes. After theComediesandTragedieswere wrought off, we were forced (for expedition) to send theGentlemensVerses to severall Printers, which was the occasion of their different Character; but theWorkeit selfe is one continued Letter, which (though very legible) is none of the biggest, because (as much as possible) we would lessen the Bulke of the Volume.
A CATALOGUE of all the Comedies and Tragedies Contained in this Booke.
The Mad Lover.TheSpanishCurate.The littleFrenchLawyer.The Custome of the Country.The Noble Gentleman.The Captaine.The Beggers Bush.The Coxcombe.The False One.The Chances.The Loyall Subject.The Lawes ofCandy.The Lover's Progresse.The Island Princesse.The Humorous Lieutenant.The Nice Valour, orthe Passionate Mad Man.The Maide in the Mill.The Prophetesse.The Tragedy ofBonduca.The Sea Voyage.The Double Marriage.The Pilgrim.The Knight ofMalta.The Womans Prize, orthe Tamer Tamed.Loves Cure, orthe Martiall Maide.The Honest Mans Fortune.The Queene ofCorinth.Women Plea'sd.A Wife for a Moneth.Wit at severall Weapons.The Tragedy ofValentinian.The Faire Maid of the Inne.Loves Pilgrimage.The Maske of the Gentlemen ofGrayes-Inne,and theInner Temple,at the Marriage of the Prince and Princesse Palatine ofRhene.Foure Playes (or Morall Representations) in one.
Written by
Gentlemen.
All in one Volume.
Published by the Authors Original Copies, the Songs to each Play being added.
Si quid habent veri Vatum præsagia, vivam.
Printed by J. Macock, for John Martyn, Henry Herringman, Richard Marriot,MDCLXXIX.
Courteous Reader, _The First Edition of these Plays in this Volume having found that Acceptance as to give us Encouragement to make a Second Impression, we were very desirous they might come forth as Correct as might be. And we were very opportunely informed of a Copy which an ingenious and worthy Gentleman had taken the pains (or rather the pleasure) to read over; wherein he had all along Corrected several faults (some very gross) which had crept in by the frequent imprinting of them. His Corrections were the more to be valued, because he had an intimacy with both our Authors, and had been a Spectator of most of them when they were Acted in their life-time. This therefore we resolved to purchase at any Rate; and accordingly with no small cost obtain'd it. From the same hand also we received several Prologues and Epilogues, with the Songs appertaining to each Play, which were not in the former Edition, but are now inserted in their proper places. Besides, in this Edition you have the addition of no fewer than Seventeen Plays more than were in the former, which we have taken the pains and care to Collect, and Print out 4to in this Volume, which for distinction sake are markt with a Star in the Catalogue of them facing the first Page of the Book. And whereas in several of the Plays there were wanting the Names of the Persons represented therein, in this Edition you have them all prefixed, with their Qualities; which will be a great ease to the Reader. Thus every way perfect and compleat have you, all both Tragedies and Comedies that were ever writ by our Authors, a Pair of the greatest Wits and most ingenious Poets of their Age; from whose worth we should but detract by our most studied Commendations.
If our care and endeavours to do our Authors right (in an incorrupt and genuine Edition of their Works) and thereby to gratifie and oblige the Reader, be but requited with a suitable entertainment, we shall be encouraged to bring_ Ben. Johnson'stwo Volumes into one, and publish them in this form; and also to reprintOld Shakespear: _both which are designed by
Yours_,
Ready to serve you,
[The Second Folio contained, between 'The Book-sellers to the Reader' and'A Catalogue,' eleven only of the Commendatory verses prefixed to theFirst Folio. These were those signed by Edw. Waller (see p. xxiii), J.Denham (p. xxii), Ben. Johnson (p. xl), Rich. Corbet (p. xl), Joh. Earle(p. xxxii), William Cartwright's first lines (p. xxxvii, to 'Fletcherwrit' on p. xxxviii), Francis Palmer (p. xlvii, 'I Could prayseHeywood,' etc.), Jasper Maine (p. xxxv), J. Berkenhead (p. xli), RogerL'Estrange (p. xxviii), Tho. Stanley (p. xxvii).]
ACATALOGUEOf all theCOMEDIES and TRAGEDIES
Contained in this BOOK, in the same Order as Printed.
1 The Maids Tragedy.* 2Philaster; or, Love lies a bleeding.* 3 A King or no King.* 4 The Scornful Lady.* 5 The Custom of the Country. 6 The Elder Brother.* 7 The Spanish Curate. 8 Wit without Money.* 9 The Beggars Bush. 10 The Humorous Lieutenant. 11 The Faithful Shepherdess.* 12 The Mad Lover. 13 The Loyal Subject. 14 Rule a Wife, and have a Wife.* 15 The Laws ofCandy. 16 The False One. 17 The Little French Lawyer. 18 The Tragedy ofValentinian. 19 MonsieurThomas.* 20 The Chances. 21Rollo, Duke ofNormandy.* 22 The Wild-Goose Chase. 23 A Wife for a Month. 24 The Lovers Progress. 25 The Pilgrim. 26 The Captain. 27 The Prophetess. 28 The Queen ofCorinth. 29 The Tragedy ofBonduca. 30 The Knight of the Burning Pestle.* 31 Loves Pilgrimage. 32 The Double Marriage. 33 The Maid in the Mill. 34 The Knight ofMaltha. 35 Loves Cure; or, the Martial Maid. 36 Women pleased. 37 The Night Walker; or, Little Thief.* 38 The Womans Prize; or, the Tamer tamed. 39 The Island Princess. 40 The Noble Gentleman. 41 The Coronation.* 42 The Coxcomb. 43 Sea-Voyage. 44 Wit at several Weapons. 45 The Fair Maid of the Inn. 46CupidsRevenge.* 47 Two Noble Kinsmen.* 48ThierryandTheodoret.* 49 The Woman-Hater.* 50 The nice Valour; or, the Passionate Madman. 51 The Honest Man's Fortune.
A Mask atGrays-Inn,and theInner Temple;Four Plays, or Moral Representations.
In the following references to the text the lines are numbered from the top of the page, including titles, acts, stage directions, &c., but not, of course, the headline. Where, as in the lists of Persons Represented, there are double columns, the right-hand column is numbered after the left.
It has not been thought necessary to record the correction of every turned letter nor the substitution of marks of interrogation for marks of exclamation andvice versa: the original compositor's stock of each running low occasionally, he used the two signs somewhat indiscriminately. Full-stops have been silently inserted at the ends of speeches and each fresh speaker has been given the dignity of a fresh line: in the double-columned folio the speeches are frequently run on. Only misprints of interest in the Quartos are recorded.
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORIE. p. x, l. 8. 1st Folioprints a comma after] not.
TO THE READER. p. xi, l. 6. 1st Fomits the bracket.
THE STATIONER TO THE READERS. p. xiv, l. 33. 1st Fprints] confessed it,
COMMENDATORY VERSES. p. xvii, l. 33. 1st Fmisprints] theirs. l. 41. 1st Fmisprints] Ii. l. 42. 1st Fmisprints] hist.
p. xx, l. 34. 1st Fmisprints] Fle.
p. xxiii, l. 1. 2nd F] sprung.
p. xxvi, l. 21. 1st Fmisprints] Fletcer.
p. xxxvi, l. 10. 1st Fmisprints] solemue.
p. xxxvii, l. 39. 1st Fmisprints] aud. l. 43. 2nd F] delights.
p. xxxviii, l. 4. 2nd F] And these. l. 20. 2nd Fgives signature] William Cartwright.
p. xxxix, l. 27. 1st Fmisprints] such.
p. xliii, l. 13. 2nd F] wert. l. 35. 2nd F] knowst.
p. xlviii, l. 33. 2nd F] receive the full god in. l. 35. 2nd F] Francis Palmer.
p. lii, l. 40. 1st Fmisprints] Fletcer.
p. lv, l. 19. 1st Fmisprints] ehe.