On the Edition of Mr _Francis Beaumonts_, and Mr _John Fletchers_ PLAYES never printed before. I Am _amaz'd_; and this same _Extacye_ Is both my _Glory_ and _Apology_. _Sober Joyes are dull Passions_; they must beare Proportion to the _Subject_: if _so_; where _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_ shall vouchsafe to be _That Subject_; _That Joy_ must be _Extacye_. _Fury_ is the _Complexion_ of _great Wits_; The _Fooles Distemper_: Hee, thats _mad_ by _fits_, Is _wise so_ too. It is the _Poets Muse_; The _Prophets God_: the _Fooles_, and _my excuse_. For (in _Me_) nothing lesse then _Fletchers Name_ Could have _begot_, or _justify'd_ this _flame_. _Beaumont_ } _Fletcher_ } _Return'd?_ methinks it should not be. _No_, not in's _Works_: _Playes_ are as _dead_ as _He_. The _Palate_ of _this age gusts_ nothing _High_; That has not _Custard_ in't or _Bawdery_. _Folly_ and _Madnesse_ fill the _Stage_: The _Scæne_ Is _Athens_; _where_, the _Guilty_, and the _Meane_, The _Foole 'scapes_ well enough; _Learned_ and _Great_, Suffer an _Ostracisme_; stand _Exulate_. _Mankinde_ is _fall'n againe_, _shrunke_ a _degree_, A _step_ below his very _Apostacye_. _Nature_ her _Selfe_ is out of _Tune_; and _Sicke_ Of _Tumult_ and _Disorder_, _Lunatique_. Yet _what World_ would not cheerfully _endure_ The _Torture_, or _Disease_, t' _enjoy_ the _Cure?_ _This Booke's_ the _Balsame_, and the _Hellebore_, Must _preserve bleeding Nature_, and _restore_ Our _Crazy Stupor_ to a _just quick Sence_ Both of _Ingratitude_, and _Providence_. That teaches us (at _Once_) to _feele_, and _know_, _Two deep Points_: what we _want_, and what we _owe_. Yet _Great Goods have their Ills_: Should we _transmit_ To _Future Times_, the _Pow'r_ of _Love_ and _Wit_, In _this Example_: would they not _combine_ To make _Our Imperfections Their Designe?_ They'd _study_ our _Corruptions_; and take more _Care_ to be _Ill_, then to be _Good_, _before_. For _nothing but so great Infirmity, Could make Them worthy of such Remedy. Have you not scene the Suns almighty Ray Rescue th' affrighted World_, and _redeeme Day_ From _blacke despaire_: how his _victorious Beame_ _Scatters_ the _Storme_, and _drownes_ the _petty flame_ Of _Lightning_, in the _glory_ of his _eye_: How _full_ of _pow'r_, how _full_ of _Majesty?_ When to _us Mortals, nothing_ else was _knowne_, But the _sad doubt_, whether to _burne_, or _drowne_. _Choler_, and _Phlegme, Heat_, and _dull Ignorance,_ Have cast _the people_ into _such_ a _Trance_, That _feares_ and _danger_ seeme _Great equally_, And no _dispute_ left now, but _how_ to _dye_. Just in _this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare_ Of all disorder and reformes us here.