_What? now the Stage is down, darst thou appeare Bold_ FLETC[H]ER _in this tottr'ing Hemisphear? Yes;_Poets are like Palmes which, the more weight You cast upon them, grow more strong & streight, 'Tis not _love's_ Thunderbolt, nor _Mars_ his Speare, Or _Neptune's_ angry Trident, Poets fear. _Had now grim_ BEN _bin breathing, 'with what rage, And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age_, SHAKESPEARE _with_ CHAPMAN _had grown madd, and torn Their gentle_ Sock, _and lofty_ Buskins _worne, To make their Muse welter up to the chin In blood; of_ faigned _Scenes no need had bin_, England _like_ Lucians _Eagle with an Arrow_ Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow, Had bin a Theater and subject fit To exercise in_ real _truth's their wit: Tet none like high-wing'd_ FLETCHER _had bin found This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound, Rare_ FLETCHER'S _quill_ had soar'd up to the sky, And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy: Live famous Dramatist, let every _spring_ Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons _bring: And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage, Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page_. JA. HOWELL. _P.C.C._ On the Edition. Fletcher _(whose Fame no Age can ever wast; Envy of Ours, and glory of the last) Is now alive againe; and with his Name His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame; Such as before did by a secret charme The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme, And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright, Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light. He to a Sympathie those soules betrai'd Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade; And in each mov'd spectatour could beget A reall passion by a Counterfeit: When first_ Bellario _bled, what Lady there Did not for every drop let fall a teare? And when_ Aspasia _wept, not any eye But seem'd to weare the same sad livery; By him inspired the feigned_ Lucina _drew More streams of melting sorrow then the true; But then the_ Scornfull Lady _did beguile Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile. Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay; Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey: He Nature taught her passions to out-doe, How to refine the old, and create new; Which such a happy likenesse seem'd to beare, As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were. Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept, Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claime, Had not the dying sceane expired his Name; Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come, Thrice welcome by this_ Post-liminium. _His losse preserved him; They that silenc'd Wit, Are now the Authours to Eternize it; Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived, And Playes by Intermission longer liv'd_. THO. STANLEY.