The Mad Lover :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fletcher arise, Usurpers share thy Bayes,
They Canton thy vast Wit to build small Playes:
He comes! his Volume breaks through clowds and dust,
Downe, little Witts, Ye must refund, Ye must.

Nor comes he private, here's great BEAUMONT too,
How could one single World encompasse Two?
For these Co-heirs had equall power to teach
All that all Witts both can and cannot reach.
Shakespear was early up, and went so drest
As for those dawning houres he knew was best;
But when the Sun shone forth, You Two thought fit
To weare just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.
Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must looke for New,
Manners and Scenes may alter, but not You;
For Yours are not meere Humours, gilded straines;
The Fashion lost, Your massy Sense remaines

Some thinke Your VVitts of two Complexions fram'd,
That One the Sock, th'Other the Buskin claim'd;
That should the Stage embattaile all it's Force,
FLETCHER would lead the Foot, BEAUMONT the Horse.
But, you were Both for Both; not Semi-witts,
Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:
Y'are not Two Faculties (and one Soule still)
He th'Understanding, Thou the quick free Will;
But, as two Voyces in one Song embrace,
(FLETCHER'S keen Trebble, and deep BEAUMONTS Base)
Two, full, Congeniall Soules; still Both prevail'd;
His Muse and Thine were Quarter'd, not Impal'd:
Both brought Your Ingots, Both toil'd at the Mint,
Beat, melted, sifted, till no drosse stuck in't,
Then in each Others scales weigh'd every graine,
Then smooth'd and burnish'd, then weigh'd all againe,
Stampt Both your Names upon't at one bold Hit,
Then, then 'twas Coyne, as well as Bullion-Wit.

Thus Twinns: But as when Fate one Eye deprives,
That other strives to double which survives:
So BEAVMONT dy'd: yet left in Legacy
His Rules and Standard-wit (FLETCHER) to Thee.
Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon,
A Two-horn'd Crescent then, now one Full-moon.

Joynt Love before, now Honour doth provoke;
So th'old Twin-Giants forcing a huge Oake
One slipp'd his footing, th'Other sees him fall,
Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all.
Imperiall FLETCHER! here begins thy Raigne,
Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain;
Thy swift dispatching Soule no more doth stay
Then He that built two Citties in one day;
Ever brim full, and sometimes running o're
To feede poore languid VVitts that waite at doore,
VVho creep and creep, yet ne're above-ground stood,
(For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood)
But thou art still that Bird of Paradise
VVhich hath no feet and ever nobly flies:
Rich, lusty Sence, such as the Poet ought,
For Poems if not Excellent, are Naught;
Low wit in Scenes? in state a Peasant goes;
If meane and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose,
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,
To whom He that writes VVit, shews he hath none.

Brave Shakespeare flow'd, yet had his Ebbing too,
Often above Himselfe, sometimes below;
Thou Alwayes Best; if ought seem'd to decline,
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine:
Thus thy faire SHEPHEARDESSE, which the bold Heape
(False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,
VVas found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd,
At worst 'twas worth two hundred thousand pound.

Some blast thy Works lest we should track their VValke
Where they steale all those few good things they talke;
Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,
For Plunder'd folkes ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth)
Thy strong Sence pall's when they purloine it forth.
When did'st Thou borrow? where's the man e're read
Ought begg'd by Thee from those Alive or Dead?
Or from dry Goddesses, as some who when
They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men.
Thou was't thine owne Muse, and hadst such vast odds
Thou out-writ'st him whose verse made all those Godds:
Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares,
As much as Greeks or Latines thee in yeares:
Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms,
VVe ebbe downe dry to pebble-Anagrams;
Dead and insipid, all despairing fit
Lost to behold this great Relapse of VVit:
What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce)
Till Iohnson made good Poets and right Verse.

Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke,
Save when she'd show how scurvily they looke;
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)
Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;
Thy Nerves have Beauty, which Invades and Charms;
Lookes like a Princesse harness'd in bright Armes.

Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;
Tearing themselves, and almost split their braine
To render harsh what thou speak'st free and cleane;
Such gloomy Sense may passe for High and Proud,
But true-born VVit still flies above the Cloud;
Thou knewst 'twas Impotence what they call Height;
Who blusters strong i'th Darke, but creeps it'h Light.

And as thy thoughts were cleare, so, Innocent;
Thy Phancy gave no unswept Language vent;
Slaunderst not Lawes, prophan'st no holy Page,
(As if thy Fathers Crosier aw'd the Stage;)
High Crimes were still arraign'd, though they made shift
To prosper out foure Acts, were plagu'd i'th Fift:
All's safe, and wise; no stiffe-affected Scene,
Nor swoln, nor flat, a True Full Naturall veyne;
Thy Sence (like well-drest Ladies) cloath'd as skinn'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor City-startcht and pinn'd
Thou hadst no Sloath, no Rage, no sullen Fit,
But Strengh and Mirth, FLETCHER'S a Sanguin VVit.

Thus, two great Consul-Poets all things swayd,
Till all was English Borne or English Made:
Miter and Coyfe here into One Piece spun,
BEAVMONT a Judge's, This a Prelat's sonne.
What strange Production is at last displaid,
(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aide)
Behold, two Masculines espous'd each other,
Wit and the World were born without a Mother.

I. Berkenhead.