 | The Mad Lover |  |
IN MEMORY OF Mr. Iohn Fletcher.
Mee thought our Fletcher weary of this croud,Wherein so few have witt, yet all are loud,
Unto Elyzium fled, where he alone
Might his own witt admire and ours bemoane;
But soone upon those Flowry Bankes, a throng
Worthy of those even numbers which he sung,
Appear'd, and though those Ancient Laureates strive
When dead themselves, whose raptures should survive,
For his Temples all their owne bayes allowes,
Not sham'd to see him crown'd with naked browes;
Homer his beautifull Achilles nam'd,
Vrging his braine with Joves might well be fam'd,
Since it brought forth one full of beauties charmes,
As was his Pallas, and as bold in Armes;
But when he the brave Arbases saw, one
That saved his peoples dangers by his own,
And saw Tigranes by his hand undon
Without the helpe of any Mirmydon,
He then confess'd when next hee'd Hector slay,
That he must borrow him from Fletchers Play;
This might have beene the shame, for which he bid
His Iliades in a Nut-shell should be hid:
Virgill of his Æneas next begun,
Whose God-like forme and tongue so soone had wonne;
That Queene of Carthage and of beauty too,
Two powers the whole world else were slaves unto,
Vrging that Prince for to repaire his faulte
On earth, boldly in hell his Mistresse sought;
But when he Amintor saw revenge that wrong,
For which the sad Aspasia sigh'd so long,
Vpon himselfe, to shades hasting away,
Not for to make a visit but to stay;
He then did modestly confesse how farr
Fletcher out-did him in a Charactar.
Now lastly for a refuge, Virgill shewes
The lines where Corydon Alexis woes;
But those in opposition quickly met
The smooth tongu'd Perigot and Amoret:
A paire whom doubtlesse had the others seene,
They from their owne loves had Apostates beene;
Thus Fletcher did the fam'd laureat exceed,
Both when his Trumpet sounded and his reed;
Now if the Ancients yeeld that heretofore,
None worthyer then those ere Laurell wore;
The least our age can say now thou art gon,
Is that there never will be such a one:
And since t'expresse thy worth, our rimes too narrow be,
To help it wee'l be ample in our prophesie.
H. HOWARD.
| The Mad Lover | |