Kitabı oku: «The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes», sayfa 6

 
Nonnulla desunt's legibly appeare,
So truly now Camdens Remaines lye there.
Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath
Of 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 gives
A 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 Vine
With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine
A friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots
And gathers growth and moysture from its roots;
About its armes the thankfull clusters cling
Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling
The blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haire
Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare.
So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe
Borrow support and strength and lend but show.
And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun
Strongly 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 all
Produc'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 Spirit
That might but parcell of thy worth inherit;
For but a sparke of that diviner fire
Which thy full breast did animate and inspire;
That Soules could be divided, thou traduce
But a small particle of thine to us!
Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sit
But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit;
When it had plummets hung on to suppresse
It'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 fit
That hung on thee; nor thou far gone in witt
As men in a disease; thy Phansie cleare,
Muse chast, as those frames whence they tooke their fire;
No spurious composures amongst thine
Got in adultery 'twixt Witt and Wine.
And as th' Hermeticall Physitians draw
From things that curse of the first-broken Law,
That Ens Venenum, which extracted thence
Leaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence:
So was thy Spirit calcined; no Mixtures there
But perfect, such as next to Simples are.
Not like those Meteor-wits which wildly flye
In 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 Gall
Oft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall.
Nature us'd all her skill, when thee she meant
A Wit at once both Great and Innocent.
Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy judgement, not
For mending one word, a whole sheet to blot.
Thou couldst anatomize with ready art
And skilfull hand crimes lockt close up i'th heart.
Thou couldst unfold darke Plots, and shew that path
By 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 there
The lawfull Prince and true Inheriter;
Knewst all darke turnings in the Labyrinth
Of policie, which who but knowes he sinn'th,
Save thee, who un-infected didst walke in't
As the great Genius of Government.
And when thou laidst thy tragicke buskin by
To Court the Stage with gentle Comedie,
How new, how proper th' humours, how express'd
In rich variety, how neatly dress'd
In language, how rare Plots, what strength of Wit
Shin'd in the face and every limb of it!
The Stage grew narrow while thou grewst to be
In thy whole life an Exc'llent Comedie.
To these a Virgin-modesty which first met
Applause with blush and feare, as if he yet
Had not deserv'd; till bold with constant praise
His browes admitted the unsought for Bayes.
Nor would he ravish fame; but left men free
To 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 few
Could judge, grew high, cri'd Murther; though he knew
The 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 fire
As spight of Malice she shall ne're expire.
Attending, not affecting, thus the crowne
Till every hand did help to set it on,
Hee came to be sole Monarch, and did raign
In Wits great Empire, absolute Soveraign.
 

JOHN HARRIS.

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 thee Fletcher, and thy Playes.
But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
And 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 think
There 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 cost
He 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 one
Of 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 say
Though Stephen miscarri'd that so did the play:
Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
That Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene:
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
Stuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
Is 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 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 looke
To 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 hint
To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
You, that are here before me Gentlemen,
And Princes of Parnassus by the Penne
And your just Judgements of his worth, that have
Preserved 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 I
Will deserve here: For where you versifie
In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,
I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.
I am admitted. Now, have at the Rowt
Of 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 know
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:
All such must be excluded; and the sort,
That onely upon trust, or by report
Have taken Fletcher up, and thinke it trim
To 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 proclaim
Their 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, before
Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
As formerly, before Tom Coryate,
Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
To perish: For the Witty Coppies tooke
Of 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 too
In other Spheres:) For Fletchers flourishing Bayes
Must 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 know
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T' informe 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 guesse
Who 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 Play
Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines
Upon the Stage; and shall to th' Stationers gaines
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-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 trudge
To Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, know
The 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 He
That was the Master of his Art and Me
Most knowing Johnson (proud to call him Sonne)
In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done
His very Selfe. I knew him till he dyed;
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
Of sorrow overwhelm'd the Stage; which gave
Volleys 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 dyed
Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
As is their Poët. Now at the Report
Of the Kings second comming to his Court,
The Bookes creepe from the Presse to Life, not Action,
Crying unto the World, that no protraction
May hinder Sacred Majesty to give
Fletcher, 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 come
To file our Names or Verse upon the Tombe
Of Fletcher, and by boldly making knowne
His Wit, betray the Nothing of our Owne?
For if we grant him dead, it is as true
Against 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 contrive
By 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 one
To 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 attest
Under 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.