University of Virginia Library

Another on the same.

[Fletcher, though some call it thy fault, that wit]

Fletcher , though some call it thy fault, that wit
So overflow'd thy Scenes, that ere 'twas fit
To come upon the Stage, Beaumont was fain
To bid thee be more dull, that's write again,
And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came
In a clear, bright, full, but too large a flame;
And after all (finding thy Genius such)
That blunted, and allay'd, 'twas yet too much;
Added his sober spunge, and did contract
Thy plenty to less wit to make't exact:
Yet we through his corrections could see
Much treasure in thy superfluity,
Which was so fil'd away, as when we do
Cut Jewels, that that's lost is Jewell too;
Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know
By losing makes the Stream thence wealthy grow.
They who do on thy works severely sit,
And call thy Store the over-births of wit,
Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when
Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen
Had no fault but abundance, which did lay
Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play;
And hence do grant, that what they call excess
Was to be reckon'd as thy happiness,
From whom wit issued in a full Spring-Tide;
Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside.
For that thou couldst thine own free fancy bind
In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd
As to observe the rules of Art, which sway
In the contrivance of a true-born Play,
These works proclame, which thou didst write retir'd
From Beaumont, by none but thy self inspir'd;
Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,
Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit,
But like to Durers Pencill, which first knew
The Laws of Faces, and then Faces drew;
Thou knowst the Air, the Colour, and the place,
The Symetry, which gives the Poem grace:
Parts are so fitted unto parts, as do
Shew thou hadst Wit, and Mathematicks too;
Knewst were by line to spare, where to dispence,
And didst beget just Comedies from thence;
Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,
That they (their own Black-Friers) unacted breath.
Johnson hath writ things lasting, and divine,
Yet his Love-Scenes, Fletcher, compar'd to thine,
Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,
As heat with Ice, or warm fires mix'd with Snow;
Thou, as if struck with the same generous Darts,
Which burn, and reign in noble Lovers hearts,
Hast cloath'd Affections in such native tires,
And so describ'd them in their own true fires,
Such moving sighs, such undissembled tears,
Such charms of Language, such hopes mixt with fears,
Such grants after denials, such pursutes
After despair, such amorous recruits,
That some who sat Spectators have confest
Themselves transform'd to what they saw exprest,
And felt such shafts steal through their captiv'd sense,
As made them rise Parts, and go Lovers thence.
Nor was thy Stile wholly compos'd of Groves,
Or the soft strains of Shepheards and their Loves;
When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth
In that kind, came into the world all mirth,
All point, all edge, all sharpness; we did sit
Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,
Which flow'd in such true salt, that we did doubt
In which Scene we laught most two shillings out.
Shakespeare to thee was dull, whose best Jest lies
I'th' Ladies questions, and the Fools replies,
Old fashion'd wit, which walk'd from Town to Town
In turn'd Hose, which our Fathers call'd the Clown;
Whose wit our nice times would obsceaness call,
And which made Bawdry pass for Comicall:
Nature was all his Art, thy vein was free
As his, but without his scurility;
From whom mirth came unforc'd, no Jest perplex'd,
But without labour clean, chaste and unvext.
Thou wert not like some, our small Poets, who
Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;
Whose wit is pilfring, and whose vein and wealth
In Poetry lies meerly in their stealth;
Nor did'st thou feel their drought, their pangs, their qualms,
Their rack in writing, who do write for Alms,
Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,
But to their Benefactors dole aspires.
Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy self to praise
Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes
Didst write stale commendations to thy Book,
Which we for Beaumont's or Ben Johnson's took:
That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he
Can truly pay, Fletcher, who writes like thee.