Troys _ravisht_ Ganymed _doth sing to_ Jove, _And_ Phoebus _selfe playes on his Lyre above. The Cretan Gods, or glorious men, who will Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill, Best Poet of thy times, or he will prove As mad as thy brave_ Memnon _was with love._ ASTON COKAINE, Baronet. Upon the Works of BEAUMONT, and FLETCHER. _How_ Angels (_cloyster'd in our humane Cells_) _Maintaine their parley,_ Beaumont-Fletcher _tels; Whose strange unimitable Intercourse Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force Of the most forward soules; all must submit Untill they reach these_ Mysteries _of Wit. The_ Intellectuall Language _here's exprest, Admir'd in better times, and dares the Test Of Ours; for from_ Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, _and_ Sence, _This Volume springs a new true_ Quintessence. JO. PETTUS, Knight. On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. _John F[l]etcher_, never before Printed. Haile_ Fletcher, _welcome to the worlds great Stage; For our two houres, we have thee here an age In thy whole Works, and may th'_ Impression _call The_ Pretor _that presents thy Playes to all: Both to the People, and the_ Lords _that sway That_ Herd, _and Ladies whom those Lords obey. And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite But moves on two Poles,_ Profit _and_ Delight, _Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest When every one is tickled with a jest: And that pure_ Fletcher, _able to subdue A_ Melancholy _more then_ Burton _knew. And though upon the by, to his designes The_ Native _may learne English from his lines, And_ th' Alien _if he can but construe it, May here be made free_ Denison _of wit. But his maine end does drooping_ Vertue _raise, And crownes her beauty with eternall_ Bayes; _In Scænes where she inflames the frozen soule, While_ Vice _(her paint washt off) appeares so foule; She must this_ Blessed Isle _and Europe leave, And some new_ Quadrant _of the_ Globe _deceive: Or hide her Blushes on the_ Affrike _shore Like_ Marius, _but ne're rise to_ triumph _more; That_ honour _is resign'd to_ Fletchers _fame; Adde to his Trophies, that a_ Poets _name (Late growne as odious to our_ Moderne _states As that of_ King _to Rome) he vindicates From black aspertions, cast upon't by those Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose. _And_, By the Court of Muses be't decreed, _What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed, When we name_ Fletcher _shall be so proclaimed, As all that's_ Royall _is when_ Cæsar's _nam'd. ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight. To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. _Francis Beaumont_.