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On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. John Fletcher, never before Printed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. John Fletcher, never before Printed.

Haile Fletcher, welcome to the worlds great Stage;
For our two houres, we have thee here an age
In thy whole Works, and may th'Impression call
The Pretor that presents thy Playes to all:
Both to the People, and the Lords that sway
That Herd, and Ladies whom those Lords obey.
And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite
But moves on two Poles, Profit, and Delight,
Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest
When every one is tickled with a jest:
And that pure Fletcher, able to subdue
A Melancholy more then Burton knew.
And though upon the by, to his designes
The Native may learne English from his lines,
And th'Alien if he can but construe it,
May here be made free Denison of wit.
But his maine end does drooping Vertue raise,
And crownes her beauty with eternall Bayes;
In Scænes where she inflames the frozen soule,
While Vice (her paint washt off) appeares so foule;
She must this Blessed Isle and Europe leave,
And some new Quadrant of the Globe deceive:
Or hide her Blushes on the Affrike shore
Like Marius, but ne're rise to triumph more;
That honour is resign'd to Fletchers fame;
Adde to his Trophies, that a Poets name
(Late growne as odious to our Moderne states
As that of King to Rome) he vindicates
From black aspertions, cast upon't by those
Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.
And, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,
What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,
When we name Fletcher shall be so proclaim'd,
As all that's Royall is when Cæsar's nam'd.
ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.