RIGHT WORSHIPFUL, THE WORTHILY HONOURED,
ROBERT PARKHURST, ES2.
WERE these but worthless poems, or light rimes, Writ by some common scribler of the times, Without your leave I durst not then engage You to ennoble 'em by your patronage; But these though orphans, and left fatherlesse, Their rich endowments show they do possesse A father's blessing; whom the Fates thought fit To make a master of a mine of wit: Whose ravishing conceits do towre so high, As if his quill had dropt from Mercury: But when his fancy chanc'd of love to sing, You'd sweare his pen were plum'd from Cupid's He doth an amorous passion so discover, As if (save Beaumont) none had ere been lover; Some praise a manly bounty, some incline More to applaud the vertues feminine; Some severall graces in both sexes hid, But only Beaumont's, he alone that did By a rare stratagem of wit connex
What's choice and excellent in either sex. [straine,
Then cherish (sir) these saplings, whose each
Speakes them the issue of brave Beaumont's braine;
Which made me thus dare to prefix your name,
Which will, if ought can, adde unto their fame.
I am, sir,
your most humble and
devoted servant,
L. B'.
TO THE TRUE PATRONESSE OF ALL POETRY,
CALIOPE.
It is a statute in deep wisdom's lore,
That for his lines none should a patron choose,
By wealth or poverty, by lesse or more,
But who the same is able to peruse:
Nor ought a man his labour dedicate,
Without a true and sensible desert,
To any power of such a mighty state:
But such a wise defendresse as thou art;
Thou great and powerfull Muse, then pardon me,
That I presume thy maiden cheek to staine,
In dedicating such a worke to thee,
Sprung from the issue of an idle braine;
I use thee as a woman ought to be,
I consecrate my idle hours to thee.
! Lawrence Blaiklock, the bookseller.
IN LAUDEM AUTHORİS. LIKE to the weake estate of a poore friend, To whom sweet fortune hath been ever slow, Which daily doth that happy houre attend, When his poore state may his affection show: So fares my love, not able as the rest, To chant thy praises in a lofty vaine; Yet my poore Muse, doth vow to do her best, And wanting wings, she'll tread an humble straine ; I thought at first her homely steps to raise, And for some blazing epethites to look: But then I fear'd that by such wond'rous praise, Some men would grow suspitious of thy book: For he that doth thy due deserts rehearse, Derives that glory from thy worthy verse. W. B.
TO THE AUTHOR. EITHER the goddesse draws her troops of loves From Paphos, where she erst was held devine, And doth unyoke her tender necked doves, Placing her seat on this small pap'ry shrine; Or the sweet Graces through th' Idalian grove, Led the best author in their danced rings; Or wanton nymphs in watry bowers have wove, With faire Mylesian threads, the verse he sings; Or cutious Pallas once againe doth strive With proud Arachne, for illustrions glory, And once against doth loves of gods revive, Spinning in silver twists a lasting story: If none of these then Venus chose his sight, To lead the steps of her blind son aright. J. B.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.be/books/content?id=essUAAAAYAAJ&hl=nl&output=html_text&pg=PA179&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:HARVARDHN46PL&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3vOfXnuIesbFotFFI7Ixa_I1pOEA&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=465,1166,464,161)
Rearing her pallace in our poet's breast.
The wanton Ovid, whose intising rimes
Have with attractive wonder forc'd attention
No more shall be admir'd at: for these times
Produce a poet, whose more rare invention,
Will teare the love-sick mirtle from his brows,
T' adorne his temple with deserved boughs.
The strongest marble feares the smallest rain,
F. B. The rusting canker eates the purest gold;
Honour's best dye dreads envy's blackest stain,
The crimson badge of beauty must wax old:
But this faire issue of thy fruitfull braine,
Nor dreads age, envy, cankering, rust or raine,
J. F.
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.
I SING the fortune of a lucklesse paire,
Whose spotlesse soules now in one body be;
For beauty still is Prodromus to care,
Crost by the sad stars of nativity:
And of the strange inchantment of a well,
Given by the gods; my sportive Muse doth write,
Which sweet lip'd Ovid long ago did tell,
Wherein who bathes streight turnes Hermaphrodite:
I hone my poem is so lively writ,
That thou wilt turn halfe mad with reading it.
TO MR. FRANCIS BEAUMONT
(THEN LIVING.)
How I do love thee Beaumont, and thy Muse,
That unto me do'st such religion use!
How I do feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there where most thou praisest ine,
For writing better, I must envy thee.
M.FLETCHER'S INCOMPARABLE FLAIES.
APOLLO sings, his harpe resounds; give roome,
For now behold the golden pompe is come,
Thy pompe of playes which thousands come to see,
With admiration both of them and thee.
O volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover
To be with juice of cedar washt all over;
Here's words with lines, and lines with scenes con-
sent,
To raise an act to full astonishment;
Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoone, and maids to dye for love.
Love lies a bleeding here, Evadne there
Swels with brave rage, yet comly every where:
Here's a nad lover, there that high designe
Of King and no King, (and the rare plot thine)
So that when e're we circumvolve our eyes;
Such rich, such fre-h, such sweet varieties,
Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see
None writes love's passion in the world like thee.
ROB. HERRICK.
MEMORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE PAIRE OF AUTHORS,
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
GREAT paire of authors, whom one equall star
Begot so like in genius, that you are
In fame, as well as writings, both so knit,
That no man knows where to divide your wit,
Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire,
And did each other mutually inspire;
Whether one did contrive, the other write,
Or one fram'd the plot, the other did indite;
Whether one found the matter, th' other dresse,
Or th' one disposed what the other did expresse ;
Where e're your parts between your selves
lay, we
In all things which you did, but one thread see,
So evenly drawn out, so gently spun,
That art with nature ne're did smoother run.
Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what part
Of all your numerous labours hath desert
More to-be fram'd than other? shall I say,
I've met a lover so drawn in your play,
So passionately written, so inflam'd,
So jealously inrag'd, then gently tam'd,
That I in reading have the person seen,
And your pen hath part stage, and actor been?
Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbeare
To clap, when I a captaine do meet there;
So lively in his own vaine humour drest,
So braggingly, and like himselfe exprest,
That moderne cowards, when they saw him plaid,
Saw, blusht, departed guilty, and betrai'd?
You wrote all parts right; whatsoe're the stage
Had from you, was seen there as in the age,
And had their cquall life: vices which were
Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:
They who possess'd a box, and haife crown spent
To learne obscenenes, return'd innocent; [scene
And thank'd you for this coz'nage, whose chast
Taught loves so noble, so reform'd, so cleane;
That they who brought foule fires, and thither came
To bargaine, went thence with a holy flame.
Be't to your praise too, that your stock and veinę
Held both to tragie and to comic straine;
Where e're you listed to be high and grave,
No buskin show'd more solid, no quill gave
Such feeling objects to draw teares from eyes,
Spectators sate part in your tragedies.
And where you listed to be low, and free,
Mirth turu'd the whole house into comedy;
So piercing (where you pleas'd) hitting a fault,
That humours from your pen issued all salt.
Nor were you thus in works and poems knit,
As to be but two halfes, and make one wit;
But as some things we see have double cause,
And yet the effet it selfe, from both whole draws :
So though you were thus twisted and combin'd
As two bodies, to have but one faire mind;
Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say
Both joyn'd, and both did wholly make the play:
For that you could write singly, we may guesse
By the divided pecces, which the presse
Hath severally set forth; nor were gone so
(Like some our moderne authors) made to go
On meerely by the help of th' other, who
To purchase fame do come forth one of two;
Nor wrote you so, that one's part was to lick
The other into shape, nor did one stick
The other's cold inventions with such wit,
As serv'd like spice, to make them quick and fit;
Nor out of mutuall want, or emptinesse,
Did you conspire to go still twins to th' presse :
But what thus joyned you wrote, might have come
forth
As good from each, and stor'd with the same worth
That thus united them, you did joyne sense;
In you 'twas league, in others impotence;
And the presse which both thus amongst us sends,
Seuds us one poet in a paire of friends.
ON THE HAPPY COLLECTION OF
BEAUMONT'S AND FLETCHER'S WORKS.
FLETCHER, arise, usurpers share thy bayes,
They canton thy vast wit to build small playes:
He comes! his vol une breaks through clouds and
Down, little wits, ye must refund, ye must. [dust,
Nor comes he private, here's great Beaumont
How could one single world encompasse two? [too,
For these co-heires had equall power to teach
All that all wits both can and cannot reach.
Shakespeare 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 strains;
fue fashion lost, your massy sense remaines.
Some thinke your wit's of two complexions
fram'd,
That one the sock, th' other the buskin claim'd;
That should the stage embattaile all its force,
Fletcher would lead the foot, Beaumont the horse.
But, you were both for both; not semi-wits,
Fach piece is wholly two, yet never splits:
Y are not two faculties (and one soule still);
He th' understanding, thou the quick free will;
Rat, as two voices in one song embrace,
Fletcher's keen trebble, and deep Beaumont's base)
Tso, full, congeniall soules; still both prevail'd;
His Muse and thine were quarter'd, not impal'd:
Both brought your ingots, both toy'd at the mint,
Beat, inelted, sifted, till no drosse stuck in't ;
Then in each other's 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.
Thos twinns: but as when Fate one eye deprives,
That other strives to double which survives:
So Beaumont 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 the 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 raign,
Scenes flow like sun-beames from thy glorious
brain;
Thy swift dispatching soule no more doth stay,
Than he that built two cities in one day;
Ever brim-full, and sometimes running o're,
To feed poore languid wits that waite at doore;
Who creep, and creep, yet ne're above-ground
stood,
(For creatures have most feet which have least
But thou art still that Bird of Paradise
Which 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 wit, shows he hath none.
Brave Shakespeare flow'd, yet had his ebbings
Often above himselfe, sometimes below;
Thou alwaies best; if ought seem'd to decline, 'I'was the unjudging rout's mistake, not thine: Thus thy faire Shepheardesse, which the bold heap (False to themselves and thee) did prize so cheape, Was 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 [talke; Where they steale all those few good things they Wit-burglary must chide those it feeds on, For plunder'd folkes ought to be rail'd upon; But (as stolu goods go off at halfe their worth) Thy strong sence palls when they purloine it forth. [read When did'st thou borrow? where's the man e're Ought begg'd by thee from those alive or dead? Or from dry goddesses, as some who when They stuffe their page with gods, write worse than [odds, Thou wast thine own Muse, and hadst such vast Thou out writt'st him whose verse made all those gods:
Surpassing those our dwarfish age upreares,
As much as Greeks or Latines thee in yeares:
The ocean fancy knew nor bankes nor damms,
We ebbe down dry to pebble-anagrams ;
Dead and insipid, all despairing sit,
Lost to behold this great relapse of wit:
What strength remaines, is like that (wild and
Till Johnson made good poets and right verse.
Such boyst'rous trifles thy Muse would not
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
charmes;
Looks 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 wit still flies above the cloud; Thou knew'st 'twas impotence what they call height; [light. Who blusters strong i'th' darke, but creeps i'th'
And as thy thoughts were cleare, so, innocent; Thy phancy gave no unswept language vent; Slaunder'st not laws, prophan'st no holy page, (As if thy father's 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 stiff-affected scene,
Nor swoln, nor flat, a true full naturall veine;
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 strength and mirth, Fletcher's a sanguin wit.
Thus, two great consul-poets all things sway'd,
Till all was English borne, or English made:
Miter and coyfe here into one piece spun,
Beaumont a judge's, this a prelat's son.
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.
1. BERKENHEAD
|