 | The Maids Tragedy |  |
On Mr. John Fletcher's Works.
So
shall we joy, when all whom Beasts and Worms
Had turn'd to their own substances and forms,
Whom Earth to Earth, or Fire hath chang'd to Fire,
We shal behold more than at first intire
A now we do, to see all thine, thine own
In thee thy Muses Resurrection,
Whose scatter'd parts, from thine own Race, more wounds
Hath suffer'd than Acteon from his Hounds;
Which first their Brains, and then their Bellies fed,
And from their Excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse enraged, from her Urn
Like Ghosts of murder'd Bodies doth return
To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit
Gives not more Gold than they give dross to it;
Who not content, like Felons, to purloin,
Add Treason to it, and debase thy Coin.
Had turn'd to their own substances and forms,
Whom Earth to Earth, or Fire hath chang'd to Fire,
We shal behold more than at first intire
A now we do, to see all thine, thine own
In thee thy Muses Resurrection,
Whose scatter'd parts, from thine own Race, more wounds
Hath suffer'd than Acteon from his Hounds;
Which first their Brains, and then their Bellies fed,
And from their Excrements new Poets bred.
But now thy Muse enraged, from her Urn
Like Ghosts of murder'd Bodies doth return
To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage,
And undeceive the long abused Age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit
Gives not more Gold than they give dross to it;
Who not content, like Felons, to purloin,
Add Treason to it, and debase thy Coin.
But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise
Trophies to Thee from other mens dispraise;
Nor is thy Fame on lesser ruins built,
Nor needs thy juster Title the foul guilt
Of Eastern Kings, who to secure their Reign,
Must have their Brothers, Sons, and Kindred slain.
Then was Wits Empire at the fatal height,
When Labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprung,
Like petty Princes from the Fall of Rome.
When Johnson, Shakespeare, and thy self did sit,
And sway'd in the Triumvirate of Wit—
Yet what from Johnson's Oil, and Sweat did flow,
Or what more easie Nature did bestow
On SHAKESPEARES gentler Muse, in thee full grown
Their Graces both appear, yet so, that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins
But mixt like th'Elements, and born like twins,
So interweav'd, so like, so much the same,
None this meer nature, that meer Art can name?
'Twas this the Ancients meant, nature and skill
Are the two tops of their Pernassus Hill.
Trophies to Thee from other mens dispraise;
Nor is thy Fame on lesser ruins built,
Nor needs thy juster Title the foul guilt
Of Eastern Kings, who to secure their Reign,
Must have their Brothers, Sons, and Kindred slain.
Then was Wits Empire at the fatal height,
When Labouring and sinking with its weight,
From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprung,
Like petty Princes from the Fall of Rome.
When Johnson, Shakespeare, and thy self did sit,
And sway'd in the Triumvirate of Wit—
Yet what from Johnson's Oil, and Sweat did flow,
Or what more easie Nature did bestow
On SHAKESPEARES gentler Muse, in thee full grown
Their Graces both appear, yet so, that none
Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins
But mixt like th'Elements, and born like twins,
So interweav'd, so like, so much the same,
None this meer nature, that meer Art can name?
'Twas this the Ancients meant, nature and skill
Are the two tops of their Pernassus Hill.
J. DENHAM.
| The Maids Tragedy | |