 | The Maids Tragedy |  |
On the Edition of Mr. Francis Beaumont's, and Mr. John Fletcher's Plays never printed before.
I am
amaz'd; and this same Ecstasie
Is both my Glory and Apologie.
Sober Joys are dull Passions; they must bear
Proportion to the Subject: if so; where
Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be
That subject; That Joy must be Ecstasie.
Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;
The Fools Distemper: He, that's mad by fits,
Is wise so too. It is the Poets Muse;
The Prophets God: the Fools, and my excuse.
For (in Me) nothing less than Fletchers name
Could have begot, or justify'd this flame.
Beaumont/Fletcher Return'd? methinks it should not be.
No, not in's Works: Plays are as dead as He.
The Palate of this age gusts nothing High;
That has not Custard in't or Bawdery.
Folly and Madness fill the stage: The Scene
Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the mean,
The Fool 'scapes well enough; Learned and Great,
Suffer an Ostracism; stand Exulate.
Is both my Glory and Apologie.
Sober Joys are dull Passions; they must bear
Proportion to the Subject: if so; where
Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be
That subject; That Joy must be Ecstasie.
Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;
The Fools Distemper: He, that's mad by fits,
Is wise so too. It is the Poets Muse;
The Prophets God: the Fools, and my excuse.
For (in Me) nothing less than Fletchers name
Could have begot, or justify'd this flame.
Beaumont/Fletcher Return'd? methinks it should not be.
No, not in's Works: Plays are as dead as He.
The Palate of this age gusts nothing High;
That has not Custard in't or Bawdery.
Folly and Madness fill the stage: The Scene
Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the mean,
The Fool 'scapes well enough; Learned and Great,
Suffer an Ostracism; stand Exulate.
Mankind is fall'n again, shrunk a degree,
A step below his very Apostasie.
Nature her self is out of Tune; and sick
Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatick.
Yet what world would not cheerfully endure
The Torture, or Disease, t'enjoy the Cure?
A step below his very Apostasie.
Nature her self is out of Tune; and sick
Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatick.
Yet what world would not cheerfully endure
The Torture, or Disease, t'enjoy the Cure?
This Book's the Balsam, and the Hellebore,
Must preserve bleeding nature, and restore
Our Crazy stupor to a just quick Sense
Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.
That teaches us (at Once) to feel, and know,
Two deep Points: what we want, and what we owe.
Yet Great Goods have their Ills: Should we transmit
To Future Times, the Pow'r of Love and Wit,
In this Example: would they not combine
To make Our Imperfections their Design?
They'd study our Corruptions; and take more
Care to be Ill, than to be Good, before.
For nothing but so great Infirmity,
Could make them worthy of such Remedy.
Must preserve bleeding nature, and restore
Our Crazy stupor to a just quick Sense
Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.
That teaches us (at Once) to feel, and know,
Two deep Points: what we want, and what we owe.
Yet Great Goods have their Ills: Should we transmit
To Future Times, the Pow'r of Love and Wit,
In this Example: would they not combine
To make Our Imperfections their Design?
They'd study our Corruptions; and take more
Care to be Ill, than to be Good, before.
For nothing but so great Infirmity,
Could make them worthy of such Remedy.
Have you not seen the Suns almighty Ray
Rescue th'affrighted world, and redeem Day
From black despair: how his victorious Beame
Scatters the storm, and drowns the petty flame
Of Lightning, in the glory of his eye:
How full of pow'r, how full of Majesty?
When to us Mortals, nothing else was known,
But the sad doubt, whether to burn, or drown.
Rescue th'affrighted world, and redeem Day
From black despair: how his victorious Beame
Scatters the storm, and drowns the petty flame
Of Lightning, in the glory of his eye:
How full of pow'r, how full of Majesty?
When to us Mortals, nothing else was known,
But the sad doubt, whether to burn, or drown.
Choler, and Phlegm, Heat, and dull Ignorance,
Have cast the people into such a Trance,
That fears and danger seem Great equally,
And no dispute left now, but how to dy.
Just in this nick, Fletcher sets the world clear
Of all disorder, and reforms us here.
Have cast the people into such a Trance,
That fears and danger seem Great equally,
And no dispute left now, but how to dy.
Just in this nick, Fletcher sets the world clear
Of all disorder, and reforms us here.
The formal Youth, that knew no other Grace,
Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,
Glasses himself: and in this faithful Mirrour,
Views, disapproves, reforms, repents his Errour.
The Credulous, bright Girl, that believes all
Language, (in Oaths) if Good, Canonical,
Is fortifi'd, and taught, here, to beware
Of ev'ry specious bait, of ev'ry snare
Save one: and that same Caution takes her more,
Than all the flattery she felt before.
She finds her Boxes, and her thoughts betray'd
By the Corruption of the Chambermaid:
Then throws her washes and dissemblings by;
And Vows nothing but Ingenuity.
Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,
Glasses himself: and in this faithful Mirrour,
Views, disapproves, reforms, repents his Errour.
The Credulous, bright Girl, that believes all
Language, (in Oaths) if Good, Canonical,
Is fortifi'd, and taught, here, to beware
Of ev'ry specious bait, of ev'ry snare
Save one: and that same Caution takes her more,
Than all the flattery she felt before.
She finds her Boxes, and her thoughts betray'd
By the Corruption of the Chambermaid:
Then throws her washes and dissemblings by;
And Vows nothing but Ingenuity.
The severe States-man quits his sullen form
Of Gravity and bus'ness; The Luke-warm
Religious his Neutrality; The hot
Brain-sick Illuminate his zeal; the sot
Stupidity; The souldier his Arrears;
The Court its Confidence; The Plebs their fears;
Gallants their Apishness and Perjurie,
Women their Pleasure and Inconstancie;
Poets their wine; the Usurer his Pelf;
The world its Vanity; and I my self.
Of Gravity and bus'ness; The Luke-warm
Religious his Neutrality; The hot
Brain-sick Illuminate his zeal; the sot
Stupidity; The souldier his Arrears;
The Court its Confidence; The Plebs their fears;
Gallants their Apishness and Perjurie,
Women their Pleasure and Inconstancie;
Poets their wine; the Usurer his Pelf;
The world its Vanity; and I my self.
Roger L'Estrange.
| The Maids Tragedy | |