 | The Maids Tragedy |  |
Mr. John Fletcher his Dramatical works now at last printed.
I could
praise Heywood now: or tell how long,
Falstaffe from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:
But for a Fletcher, I must take an Age,
And scarce invent the title for one Page.
Gods must create new Spheres, that should express
The sev'ral accents, Fletcher, of thy Dress:
The Pen of Fates should only write thy Praise:
And all Elyzium for thee turn to Bayes.
Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they,
Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play,
And search the Ephemerides to find,
When the Aspect for Poets will be kind.
Thy Poems (sacred spring) did from thee flow,
With as much pleasure, as we reade them now.
Nor need we only take them up by fits,
When love or Physick hath diseas'd our wits;
Or constr'e English to untye a knot,
Hid in a line, far subtler than the Plot.
With thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes,
And yet with thee the serious student rise:
The Eye at sev'ral angles darting rayes,
Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Plays
To ev'ry understanding still appear,
As if thou only meant'st to take that Ear;
The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,
Where ev'ry word has weight and yet no Noise,
The matter too so nobly fit, no less
Than such as only could deserve thy Dress:
Witness 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 tell
Posterity, could they but write so well.
Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance find,
Not whilst an humour's living, but Man kind.
Thou, like thy writings, Innocent and Clean,
Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scene,
None of thy Ink had gall, and Ladies can
Securely hear thee sport without a Fan.
Falstaffe from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:
But for a Fletcher, I must take an Age,
And scarce invent the title for one Page.
Gods must create new Spheres, that should express
The sev'ral accents, Fletcher, of thy Dress:
The Pen of Fates should only write thy Praise:
And all Elyzium for thee turn to Bayes.
Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they,
Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play,
And search the Ephemerides to find,
When the Aspect for Poets will be kind.
Thy Poems (sacred spring) did from thee flow,
With as much pleasure, as we reade them now.
Nor need we only take them up by fits,
When love or Physick hath diseas'd our wits;
Or constr'e English to untye a knot,
Hid in a line, far subtler than the Plot.
With thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes,
And yet with thee the serious student rise:
The Eye at sev'ral angles darting rayes,
Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Plays
To ev'ry understanding still appear,
As if thou only meant'st to take that Ear;
The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,
Where ev'ry word has weight and yet no Noise,
The matter too so nobly fit, no less
Than such as only could deserve thy Dress:
Witness 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 tell
Posterity, could they but write so well.
Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance find,
Not whilst an humour's living, but Man kind.
Thou, like thy writings, Innocent and Clean,
Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scene,
None of thy Ink had gall, and Ladies can
Securely hear thee sport without a Fan.
But when thy Tragick Muse would please to rise
In Majestie, and call tribute from our eyes;
Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so,
Who only came to see, turn'd Actors too.
How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feel
The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steel!
Nay, stranger yet, how often did I know
When the spectators ran to save the blow?
Frozen with grief we could not stir away
Until the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.
What shall I do? all Commendations end,
In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?
Give me thy spirit quickly, for I swell,
And like a raving Prophetess cannot tell
How to receive the full god in my breast:
Oh! I must sleep, and then I'le sing the rest.
In Majestie, and call tribute from our eyes;
Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so,
Who only came to see, turn'd Actors too.
How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feel
The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steel!
Nay, stranger yet, how often did I know
When the spectators ran to save the blow?
Frozen with grief we could not stir away
Until the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.
What shall I do? all Commendations end,
In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?
Give me thy spirit quickly, for I swell,
And like a raving Prophetess cannot tell
How to receive the full god in my breast:
Oh! I must sleep, and then I'le sing the rest.
FRANCIS Palmer, of Ch. Ch. Oxon.
| The Maids Tragedy | |