 | The Maids Tragedy |  |
On the Edition.
Fletcher (whose fame no age can ever wast;
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive again; and with his name
His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charm
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warm,
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, heat and Light.
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive again; and with his name
His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charm
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warm,
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, heat and Light.
He to a sympathie those souls betrai'd
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
A real passion by a Counterfeit.
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a tear?
And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
But seem'd to wear the same sad liverie.
By him inspir'd the feign'd Lucina drew
More streams of melting sorrow than the true;
But then the Scornful Lady did beguile
Their easie griefs and teach them all to smile.
Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
A real passion by a Counterfeit.
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
Did not for every drop let fall a tear?
And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
But seem'd to wear the same sad liverie.
By him inspir'd the feign'd Lucina drew
More streams of melting sorrow than the true;
But then the Scornful Lady did beguile
Their easie griefs and teach them all to smile.
Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
Love, grief and mirth thus did his charms obey:
He Nature taught her passions to out-do,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likeness seem'd to bear,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Love, grief and mirth thus did his charms obey:
He Nature taught her passions to out-do,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which such a happy likeness seem'd to bear,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Yet all had nothing been, obscurely kept
In the same Urn wherein his dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claim,
Had not the dying scene expir'd his name;
Despair our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcom by this Post-liminium.
His loss preserv'd him; they that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate reviv'd,
And Plays by Intermission longer liv'd.
In the same Urn wherein his dust hath slept,
Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claim,
Had not the dying scene expir'd his name;
Despair our joy hath doubled, he is come,
Thrice welcom by this Post-liminium.
His loss preserv'd him; they that silenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in spight of Fate reviv'd,
And Plays by Intermission longer liv'd.
THO. STANLEY.
| The Maids Tragedy | |