_Thou art above their Censure, whose darke Spirits Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits; That have no soule, nor reason to their will, But rime as ragged, as a Ganders Quill: Where Pride blowes up the Error, and transfers Their zeale in Tempests, that so wid'ly errs. Like heat and Ayre comprest, their blind desires Mixe with their ends, as raging winds with fires. Whose Ignorance and Passions, weare an eye Squint to all parts of true Humanity. All is_ Apocripha _suits not their vaine: For wit, oh fye! and Learning too; prophane! But_ Fletcher _hath done Miracles by wit, And one Line of his may convert them yet. Tempt them into the State of knowledge, and Happinesse to read and understand. The way is strow'd with_ Lawrell, _and ev'ry Muse Brings Incense to our_ Fletcher: _whose Scenes infuse Such noble kindlings from her pregnant fire, As charmes her Criticke Poets in desire, And who doth read him, that parts lesse indu'd, Then with some heat of wit or Gratitude. Some crowd to touch the Relique of his Bayes, Some to cry up their owne wit in his praise, And thinke they engage it by Comparatives, When from himselfe, himselfe he best derives. Let_ Shakespeare, Chapman, _and applauded_ Ben, _Weare the Eternall merit of their Pen, Here I am love-sicke: and were I to chuse, A Mistris corrivall 'tis_ Fletcher's _Muse._ George Buck. On Mr BEAUMONT. (Written thirty years since, presently after his death.)