The Mad Lover | ||
Vpon Mr. John Fletcher's Playes.
Fletcher, to thee, wee doe not only oweAll these good Playes, but those of others too:
Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage,
Credits the last, and entertaines this age:
No Worthies form'd by any Muse but thine
Could purchase Robes to make themselves so fine:
What brave Commander is not proud to see
Thy brave Melantius in his Gallantry,
Our greatest Ladyes love to see their scorne
Out-done by Thine, in what themselves have worne:
Th'impatient Widow ere the yeare be done
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her Gowne:
I never yet the Tragick straine assay'd
Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid:
And when I venture at the Comick stile
Thy Scornfull Lady seemes to mock my toile:
Thus has thy Muse, at once, improv'd and marr'd
Our Sport in Playes, by rendring it too hard.
So when a sort of lusty Shepheards throw
The barre by turns, and none the rest outgoe
So farre, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;
But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guard
Step in and tosse the Axeltree a yard
Or more beyond the farthest Marke, the rest
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best.
Edw. Waller.
The Mad Lover | ||