 | The Mad Lover |  |
On Mr. John Fletcer's ever to be admired Dramaticall Works.
I've
thought upon't; and thus I may gaine bayes,
I will commend thee Fletcher, and thy Playes.
But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
And passe it'h Croud amongst them for a Wit.
Apollo knows me not, nor I the Nine,
All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine.
I will commend thee Fletcher, and thy Playes.
But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
And passe it'h Croud amongst them for a Wit.
Apollo knows me not, nor I the Nine,
All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine.
By your leave Gentlemen. You Wits o'th' age,
You that both furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage.
You, who the Poet and the Actors fright,
Least that your Censure thin the second night:
Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
There ere was solæcisme in Fletchers Inke?
Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?
A happinesse not still alow'd to Ben!
After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost
He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste.
Inspir'd, Fletcher! here's no vaine-glorious words:
How ev'n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords.
Thy Language so insinuates, each one
Of thy spectators has thy passion.
Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove:
Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love:
Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Ladies can't say
Though Stephen miscarri'd that so did the play:
Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
That Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene:
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
Stuffs not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to initice,
How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded,
And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?
You that both furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage.
You, who the Poet and the Actors fright,
Least that your Censure thin the second night:
Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
There ere was solæcisme in Fletchers Inke?
Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?
A happinesse not still alow'd to Ben!
After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost
He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste.
Inspir'd, Fletcher! here's no vaine-glorious words:
How ev'n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords.
Thy Language so insinuates, each one
Of thy spectators has thy passion.
Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove:
Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love:
Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Ladies can't say
Though Stephen miscarri'd that so did the play:
Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
That Lowen, Tailor, ere could grace thy Scene:
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
Stuffs not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to initice,
How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded,
And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?
Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts fit,
Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit.
And many a she that to be tane up came,
Tooke up themselves, and after left the game.
Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit.
And many a she that to be tane up came,
Tooke up themselves, and after left the game.
Henry Harington.
| The Mad Lover | |