The Mad Lover :: :: University of Virginia Library

I am amaz'd; and this same Extacye
Is both my Glory and Apology.
Sober Ioyes are dull Passions; they must beare
Proportion to the Subject: if so; where
Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be
That Subject; That Ioy must be Extacye.
Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;
The Fooles Distemper: Hee, thats mad by fits,
Is wise so too. It is the Poets Muse;
The Prophets God: the Fooles, and my excuse.
For (in Me) nothing lesse then Fletchers Name
Could have begot, or justify'd this flame.

Beaumont/Fletcher Return'd? methinks it should not be.
No, not in's Works: Playes are as dead as He.
The Palate of this age gusts nothing High;
That has not Custard in't or Bawdery.
Folly and Madnesse fill the Stage: The Scæne
Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the Meane,
The Foole 'scapes well enough; Learned and Great,
Suffer an Ostracisme; stand Exulate.

Mankinde is fall'n againe, shrunke a degree,
A step below his very Apostacye.
Nature her Selfe is out of Tune; and Sicke
Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatique.
Yet what World would not cheerfully endure
The Torture, or Disease, t'enjoy the Cure?

This Booke's the Balsame, and the Hellebore,
Must preserve bleeding Nature, and restore
Our Crazy Stupor to a just quick Sence
Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.
That teaches us (at Once) to feele, 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 Designe?
They'd study our Corruptions; and take more
Care to be Ill, then to be Good, before.

For nothing but so great Infirmity,
Could make Them worthy of such Remedy.

Have you not seene the Suns almighty Ray
Rescue th'affrighted World, and redeeme Day
From blacke despaire: how his victorious Beame
Scatters the Storme, and drownes 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 knowne,
But the sad doubt, whether to burne, or drowne.

Choler, and Phlegme, Heat, and dull Ignorance,
Have cast the people into such a Trance,
That feares and danger seeme Great equally,
And no dispute left now, but how to dye.
Just in this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare
Of all disorder and reformes us here.

The formall Youth, that knew no other Grace,
Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,
Glasses himselfe: and in this faithfull Mirrour,
Views, disaproves, reformes, repents his Errour.

The Credulous, bright Girle, that beleeves all
Language, (in Othes) if Good, Canonicall,
Is fortifi'd, and taught, here, to beware
Of ev'ry specious bayte, of ev'ry snare
Save one: and that same Caution takes her more,
Then all the flattery she felt before.
She finds her Boxes, and her Thoughts betray'd
By the Corruption of the Chambermaide:
Then throwes her Washes and dissemblings By;
And Vowes nothing but Ingenuity.

The severe States-man quits his sullen forme
Of Gravity and bus'nesse; The Luke-warme
Religious his Neutrality; The hot
Braine-sicke Illuminate his zeale; The Sot
Stupidity; The Souldier his Arreares;
The Court its Confidence; The Plebs their feares;
Gallants their Apishnesse and Perjurie,
Women their Pleasure and Inconstancie;
Poets their Wine; the Vsurer his Pelfe;
The World its Vanity; and I my Selfe.

Roger L'Estrange.