 | The Mad Lover |  |
To the memory of the deceased but ever-living Authour in these his Poems, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.
On
the large trail of Fletchers friends let me
(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)
Become a Waited in my ragged verse,
As Follower to the Muses Followers.
Many here are of Noble ranke and worth,
That have, by strength of Art, set Fletcher forth
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,
And had the best abilities to draw him;
Many more are abroad, that write and looke
To have their lines set before Fletchers Booke;
Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse;
Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse,
And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint
To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
You, that are here before me Gentlemen,
And Princes of Parnassus by the Penne
And your just Judgements of his worth, that have
Preserv'd this Authours mem'ry from the Grave,
And made it glorious; let me, at your gate,
Porter it here, 'gainst those that come too late,
And are unfit to enter. Something I
Will deserve here: For where you versifie
In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,
I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.
I am admitted. Now, have at the Rowt
Of those that would crowd in, but must keepe out.
Beare back, my Masters; Pray keepe backe; Forbeare:
You cannot, at this time have entrance here.
You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,
Finde entertainment at the next Impression.
But let none then attempt it, that not know
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:
All such must be excluded; and the sort,
That onely upon trust, or by report
Have taken Fletcher up, and thinke it trim
To have their Verses planted before Him:
Let them read first his Works, and learne to know him,
And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.
But farre from hence be such, as would proclaim
Their knowledge of this Authour, not his Fame;
And such, as would pretend, of all the rest,
To be the best Wits that have known him best.
Depart hence all such Writers, and, before
Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
As formerly, before Tom Coryate,
Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
To perish: For the witty Coipies tooke
Of his Encomiums made themselves a Booke.
Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,
Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too
In other Spheres:) For Fletchers flourishing Bayes
Must never fade while Phœbus weares his Rayes.
Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.
Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?
Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?
And stil'd (at best) the Muses Serving-creature?
Doe you comptroll? Y'have had your Jere: Sirs, no;
But, in an humble manner, let you know
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T'informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,
What they inherit; and how well their Dads
Left one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.
And from departed Poets I can guesse
Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.
'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile,
And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle,
Till with his Swingle be his Noddle breake;
While this of Fletcher and his Works I speake:
His Works (says Momus) nay, his Plays you'd say:
Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play
Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
Been sending forth the issues of their Braines
Upon the Stage; and shall to th'Stationers gaines
Life after life take, till some After-age
Shall put down Printing, as this doth the Stage;
Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,
But in Dumb-shews her own sad Tragedy.
'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,
Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood.
(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)
Become a Waited in my ragged verse,
As Follower to the Muses Followers.
Many here are of Noble ranke and worth,
That have, by strength of Art, set Fletcher forth
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,
And had the best abilities to draw him;
Many more are abroad, that write and looke
To have their lines set before Fletchers Booke;
Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse;
Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse,
And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint
To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
You, that are here before me Gentlemen,
And Princes of Parnassus by the Penne
And your just Judgements of his worth, that have
Preserv'd this Authours mem'ry from the Grave,
And made it glorious; let me, at your gate,
Porter it here, 'gainst those that come too late,
And are unfit to enter. Something I
Will deserve here: For where you versifie
In flowing numbers, lawfull Weight, and Time,
I'll write, though not rich Verses, honest Rime.
I am admitted. Now, have at the Rowt
Of those that would crowd in, but must keepe out.
Beare back, my Masters; Pray keepe backe; Forbeare:
You cannot, at this time have entrance here.
You, that are worthy, may, by intercession,
Finde entertainment at the next Impression.
But let none then attempt it, that not know
The reverence due, which to this shrine they owe:
All such must be excluded; and the sort,
That onely upon trust, or by report
Have taken Fletcher up, and thinke it trim
To have their Verses planted before Him:
Let them read first his Works, and learne to know him,
And offer, then, the Sacrifice they owe him.
But farre from hence be such, as would proclaim
Their knowledge of this Authour, not his Fame;
And such, as would pretend, of all the rest,
To be the best Wits that have known him best.
Depart hence all such Writers, and, before
Inferiour ones, thrust in, by many a score,
As formerly, before Tom Coryate,
Whose Worke before his Praysers had the Fate
To perish: For the witty Coipies tooke
Of his Encomiums made themselves a Booke.
Here's no such subject for you to out-doe,
Out-shine, out-live (though well you may doe too
In other Spheres:) For Fletchers flourishing Bayes
Must never fade while Phœbus weares his Rayes.
Therefore forbeare to presse upon him thus.
Why, what are you (cry some) that prate to us?
Doe not we know you for a flashy Meteor?
And stil'd (at best) the Muses Serving-creature?
Doe you comptroll? Y'have had your Jere: Sirs, no;
But, in an humble manner, let you know
Old Serving-creatures oftentimes are fit
T'informe young Masters, as in Land, in Wit,
What they inherit; and how well their Dads
Left one, and wish'd the other to their Lads.
And from departed Poets I can guesse
Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse.
'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile,
And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle,
Till with his Swingle be his Noddle breake;
While this of Fletcher and his Works I speake:
His Works (says Momus) nay, his Plays you'd say:
Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play
Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease
He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas.
His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs
That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres
Been sending forth the issues of their Braines
Upon the Stage; and shall to th'Stationers gaines
Life after life take, till some After-age
Shall put down Printing, as this doth the Stage;
Which nothing now presents unto the Eye,
But in Dumb-shews her own sad Tragedy.
'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad,
Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood.
But to the Man againe, of whom we write,
The Writer that made Writing his Delight,
Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,
To beget Wit, or manage it; nor trudge
To Wit conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
He scorn'd those shifts You, that have known him, knew
The common talke that from his Lips did flow,
And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,
Then any of his time, or since have writ,
(But few excepted) in the Stages way:
His Scenes were Acts, and every Act a Play.
I knew him in his strength; even then, when He
That was the Master of his Art and Me
Most knowing Johnson (proud to call him Sonne)
In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done
His very Selfe, I knew him till he dyed;
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
Of sorrow overwhelm'd the Stage; which gave
Valleys of sighes to send him to his grave.
And grew distracted in most violent Fits
(For She had lost the best part of her Wits.)
In the first yeere, our famous Fletcher fell,
Of good King Charles who grac'd these Poems well,
Being then in life of Action: But they dyed
Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
As is their Poet. Now at the Report
Of the Kings second comming to his Court,
The Bookes creepe from the Presse to Life not Action,
Crying unto the World, that no protraction
May hinder Sacred Majesty to give
Fletcher, in them, leave on the Stage to live.
Others may more in lofty Verses move;
I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love.
The Writer that made Writing his Delight,
Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge,
To beget Wit, or manage it; nor trudge
To Wit conventions with Note-booke, to gleane
Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene:
He scorn'd those shifts You, that have known him, knew
The common talke that from his Lips did flow,
And run at waste, did savour more of Wit,
Then any of his time, or since have writ,
(But few excepted) in the Stages way:
His Scenes were Acts, and every Act a Play.
I knew him in his strength; even then, when He
That was the Master of his Art and Me
Most knowing Johnson (proud to call him Sonne)
In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done
His very Selfe, I knew him till he dyed;
And, at his dissolution, what a Tide
Of sorrow overwhelm'd the Stage; which gave
Valleys of sighes to send him to his grave.
And grew distracted in most violent Fits
(For She had lost the best part of her Wits.)
In the first yeere, our famous Fletcher fell,
Of good King Charles who grac'd these Poems well,
Being then in life of Action: But they dyed
Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
As is their Poet. Now at the Report
Of the Kings second comming to his Court,
The Bookes creepe from the Presse to Life not Action,
Crying unto the World, that no protraction
May hinder Sacred Majesty to give
Fletcher, in them, leave on the Stage to live.
Others may more in lofty Verses move;
I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love.
Ric. Brome.
| The Mad Lover | |