 | The Maids Tragedy |  |
Upon the Report of the printing of the Dramatical Poems of Mr. John Fletcher, collected before, and now set forth in one Volume.
Though
when all Fletcher writ, and the entire
Man was indulg'd unto that sacred fire,
His thoughts, and his thoughts dress, appear'd both such
That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;
Who therefore wisely did submit each birth
To knowing Beaumont, e're it did come forth,
Working again, until 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 half the name,
'Tis known, that sometimes he did stand alone,
That both the Spunge and Pencil were his own;
That himself judg'd himself, could singly do,
And was at last Beaumont and Fletcher too;
Man was indulg'd unto that sacred fire,
His thoughts, and his thoughts dress, appear'd both such
That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;
Who therefore wisely did submit each birth
To knowing Beaumont, e're it did come forth,
Working again, until 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 half the name,
'Tis known, that sometimes he did stand alone,
That both the Spunge and Pencil were his own;
That himself judg'd himself, could singly do,
And was at last Beaumont and Fletcher too;
Else we had lost his Shepherdess, a Piece,
Even and smooth, spun from a finer Fleece,
Where softness reigns, where passions passions greet,
Gentle and high, as Floods of Balsam meet:
Where dress'd in white expressions, sit bright Loves,
Drawn, like their fairest Queen, by milkie Doves;
A Piece, which Johnson, in a rapture bid
Come up a glorify'd Work, and so it did.
Even and smooth, spun from a finer Fleece,
Where softness reigns, where passions passions greet,
Gentle and high, as Floods of Balsam meet:
Where dress'd in white expressions, sit bright Loves,
Drawn, like their fairest Queen, by milkie Doves;
A Piece, which Johnson, in a rapture bid
Come up a glorify'd Work, and so it did.
Else had his Muse set with his Friend, the Stage
Had miss'd those Poems, which yet take the Age;
The World had lost those rich exemplars, where
Art, Language, Wit sit ruling in one Sphere,
Where the fresh matters soar above old Theams,
As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreams;
Where, in a worthy scorn, he dares refuse
All other gods, and makes the thing his Muse;
Where he calls passions up, and lays them so,
As spirits, aw'd by him to come and go;
Where the free Authour did whate'er he would,
And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.
Had miss'd those Poems, which yet take the Age;
The World had lost those rich exemplars, where
Art, Language, Wit sit ruling in one Sphere,
Where the fresh matters soar above old Theams,
As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreams;
Where, in a worthy scorn, he dares refuse
All other gods, and makes the thing his Muse;
Where he calls passions up, and lays them so,
As spirits, aw'd by him to come and go;
Where the free Authour did whate'er he would,
And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.
No vast uncivil bulk swells any Scene,
The strength's ingenious, and the vigour clean;
None can prevent the Fancy, and see through
At the first opening; all stand wondring how
The thing will be untill it is; which thence
With fresh delights still cheats, still takes the sence;
The whole design, the shadows, the lights such
That none can say he shews, or hides too much;
Business grows up ripened by just encrease,
And by as just degrees again doth cease,
The heats and minutes of affairs are watcht,
And these nice points of time, are met and snatcht;
Nought later than it should, nought comes before,
Chymists, and Calculators do err 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.
'Twixt Johnson's grave, and Shakespears lighter sound
His Muse so steer'd that something still was found,
Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his own,
That 'twas his mark, and he was by it known.
Hence did he take true judgments, hence did strike
All Palates some way, though not all alike;
The god of numbers might his numbers crown,
And listning to them wish they were his own.
Thus welcome forth, what Ease, or Wine, or Wit
Durst yet produce, that is, what Fletcher writ.
The strength's ingenious, and the vigour clean;
None can prevent the Fancy, and see through
At the first opening; all stand wondring how
The thing will be untill it is; which thence
With fresh delights still cheats, still takes the sence;
The whole design, the shadows, the lights such
That none can say he shews, or hides too much;
Business grows up ripened by just encrease,
And by as just degrees again doth cease,
The heats and minutes of affairs are watcht,
And these nice points of time, are met and snatcht;
Nought later than it should, nought comes before,
Chymists, and Calculators do err 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.
'Twixt Johnson's grave, and Shakespears lighter sound
His Muse so steer'd that something still was found,
Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his own,
That 'twas his mark, and he was by it known.
Hence did he take true judgments, hence did strike
All Palates some way, though not all alike;
The god of numbers might his numbers crown,
And listning to them wish they were his own.
Thus welcome forth, what Ease, or Wine, or Wit
Durst yet produce, that is, what Fletcher writ.
WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.
| The Maids Tragedy | |