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 | The Maids Tragedy |  |
Thus Twins; But at when Fate one Eye deprives,
That other strives to double which survives;
So BEAUMONT dy'd; yet left in Legacie
His Rules and Standard-wit, FLETCHER, to Thee.
Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon,
A two horn'd Crescent then, now one Full-moon.
Joynt Love before, now Honour doth provoke;
So the old Twin-Giants forcing a huge Oak,
One slipe his footing, th'Other sees him fall,
Graspt the whole Tree, and single held up all.
Imperial FLETCHER! here begins thy Reign,
Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain;
Thy swift dispatching Soul no more doth stay
Than he that hails two Cities in one day;
Ever brim fall, and sometimes running o'r
To feed poor Languid Wits that wait at door,
Who creep and creep, yet ne'r above ground stood,
(For Creatures have most feet, which have least Blood)
Put they are still that Bird of Paradise,
Which hath no Feet, and ever nobly flies:
Rich, lusty sence, such as the Poets ought,
For Poems, if not excellent, are naught;
Low Wit in Scenes, in State a Peasant goes;
If mean and flat, let is foot Yeoman-Prose,
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,
To whom he that writes Wit, shews he hath none.
That other strives to double which survives;
So BEAUMONT dy'd; yet left in Legacie
His Rules and Standard-wit, FLETCHER, to Thee.
Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon,
A two horn'd Crescent then, now one Full-moon.
Joynt Love before, now Honour doth provoke;
So the old Twin-Giants forcing a huge Oak,
One slipe his footing, th'Other sees him fall,
Graspt the whole Tree, and single held up all.
Imperial FLETCHER! here begins thy Reign,
Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain;
Thy swift dispatching Soul no more doth stay
Than he that hails two Cities in one day;
Ever brim fall, and sometimes running o'r
To feed poor Languid Wits that wait at door,
Who creep and creep, yet ne'r above ground stood,
(For Creatures have most feet, which have least Blood)
Put they are still that Bird of Paradise,
Which hath no Feet, and ever nobly flies:
Rich, lusty sence, such as the Poets ought,
For Poems, if not excellent, are naught;
Low Wit in Scenes, in State a Peasant goes;
If mean and flat, let is foot Yeoman-Prose,
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,
To whom he that writes Wit, shews he hath none.
Brave Shakespear flow'd, yet had his Ebbing too,
Often above Himself, sometimes below;
Thou always best, if ought seem'd to decline,
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine;
Thus thy fair SHEPHERDESS, which the bold Heap
(False to themselves, and Thee) did prize so cheap,
Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd,
At worst 'twas worth two hundred thousand Pound.
Often above Himself, sometimes below;
Thou always best, if ought seem'd to decline,
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine;
Thus thy fair SHEPHERDESS, which the bold Heap
(False to themselves, and Thee) did prize so cheap,
Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd,
At worst 'twas worth two hundred thousand Pound.
Some blast thy Works, lest we should track their walk,
Where they steal all those few good things they talk;
Wit-Burglary must chide those it seeds on,
For plunder'd Folks ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods go off at half their worth)
Thy strong Sence palls when they purloin it forth.
When didst Thou borrow? where's the Man e'r read
Ought beg'd by Thee, from those alive or dead?
Or from dry Goddesses, as some, who when
They stuff their Page with gods, write worse than men.
Thou wert thine own Muse, and hadst such vast odds,
Thou out-writ'st him whose Verse made all those Gods;
Surpassing those, our dwarfish Age up-rears,
As much as Greeks or Latines thee in years:
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Banks nor Damms,
We ebb down dry to pebble-Anagrams;
Dead and insipid, all despairing sit,
Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit;
What strength remains, is like that (wild and fierce)
Till Johnson made good Poets and right Verse.
Where they steal all those few good things they talk;
Wit-Burglary must chide those it seeds on,
For plunder'd Folks ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods go off at half their worth)
Thy strong Sence palls when they purloin it forth.
When didst Thou borrow? where's the Man e'r read
Ought beg'd by Thee, from those alive or dead?
Or from dry Goddesses, as some, who when
They stuff their Page with gods, write worse than men.
Thou wert thine own Muse, and hadst such vast odds,
Thou out-writ'st him whose Verse made all those Gods;
Surpassing those, our dwarfish Age up-rears,
As much as Greeks or Latines thee in years:
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Banks nor Damms,
We ebb down dry to pebble-Anagrams;
Dead and insipid, all despairing sit,
Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit;
What strength remains, is like that (wild and fierce)
Till Johnson made good Poets and right Verse.
Such boyst'rous Trifles thy Muse would not brook,
Save when she'd show bow scurvily they look;
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;
Thy Nerves have Beauty, which invades and charms;
Looks like a Princess harness'd in bright Arms.
Save when she'd show bow scurvily they look;
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;
Thy Nerves have Beauty, which invades and charms;
Looks like a Princess harness'd in bright Arms.
Nor art thou loud and cloudy; those that do
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too:
Tearing themselves, and almost split their Brain
To render harsh, what thou speak'st free and clean;
Such gloomy Sence may pass for High and Proud,
But true-born wit still flies above the Cloud;
Thou know'st 'twas Impotence what they call Height;
Who blusters strong i'th' Dark, but creeps i'th' Light.
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too:
Tearing themselves, and almost split their Brain
To render harsh, what thou speak'st free and clean;
Such gloomy Sence may pass for High and Proud,
But true-born wit still flies above the Cloud;
Thou know'st 'twas Impotence what they call Height;
Who blusters strong i'th' Dark, but creeps i'th' Light.
And as thy thoughts were clear, so, innocent;
Thy Fancy gave no unswept Language vent;
Slander'st not Laws, prophan'st no holy Page,
(As if thy Fathers Crosier aw'd the Stage;)
High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
To prosper out four Acts, were plagu'd i'th' Fifth:
All's safe and wise, no stiff affected Scene,
Nor swoln, nor flat, a true full natural Vein;
Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skin'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor City starcht and pin'd;
Thou hadst no Sloth, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
But Strength and Mirth, FLETCHER's a Sanguine VVit.
Thy Fancy gave no unswept Language vent;
Slander'st not Laws, prophan'st no holy Page,
(As if thy Fathers Crosier aw'd the Stage;)
High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
To prosper out four Acts, were plagu'd i'th' Fifth:
All's safe and wise, no stiff affected Scene,
Nor swoln, nor flat, a true full natural Vein;
Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skin'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor City starcht and pin'd;
Thou hadst no Sloth, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
But Strength and Mirth, FLETCHER's a Sanguine VVit.
| The Maids Tragedy | |