Chymists, and Calculators doe erre more: Sex, age, degree, affections, country, place, The inward substance, and the outward face; All kept precisely, all exactly fit, What he would write, he was before he writ. 'Twixt_ Johnsons _grave, and_ Shakespeares _lighter sound His muse so steer'd that something still was found, Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his owne, That 'twas his marke, and he was by it knowne. Hence did he take true judgements, hence did strike, All pallates some way, though not all alike: The god of numbers might his numbers crowne, And listning to them wish they were his owne. Thus welcome forth, what ease, or wine, or wit Durst yet produce, that is, what_ Fletcher _writ._ Another. Fletcher, _though some call it thy fault, that wit So overflow'd thy scenes, that ere 'twas fit To come upon the Stage,_ Beaumont _was faine To bid thee be more dull, that's write againe, And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came In a cleare, bright, full, but too large a flame; And after all (finding thy Genius such) That blunted, and allayed, 'twas yet too much; Added his sober spunge, and did contract Thy plenty to lesse wit to make't exact: Yet we through his corrections could see Much treasure in thy superfluity, Which was so fil'd away, as when we doe Cut Jewels, that that's lost is jewell too: Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know By losing makes the streame thence wealthy grow. They who doe on thy worker severely sit, And call thy store the over-births of wit, Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen Had no fault but abundance, which did lay Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play; And hence doe grant, that what they call excesse Was to be reckon'd as thy happinesse, From whom wit issued in a full spring-tide; Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside._ _For that thou couldst thine owne free fancy binde In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd As to observe the rules of Art, which sway In the contrivance of a true borne Play: These workes proclaime which thou didst write retired From_ Beaumont, _by none but thy selfe inspired; Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit, Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit, But like to_ Durers _Pencill, which first knew The lawes of faces, and then faces drew: Thou knowst the aire, the colour, and the place, The simetry, which gives a Poem grace: Parts are so fitted unto parts, as doe Shew thou hadst wit, and Mathematicks too: Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispence, And didst beget just Comedies from thence: Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath, That they (their owne Black-Friers) unacted breath._ Johnson _hath writ things lasting, and divine, Yet his Love-Scenes,_ Fletcher, _compar'd to thine, Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,