The Mad Lover | ||
Upon the Printing of Mr. Iohn Fletchers workes.
What meanes this numerous Guard? or do we comeTo 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 Mad Lover | ||