_How I doe love thee_ BEAUMONT, _and thy_ Muse, _That unto me do'st such religion use! How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth! At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st; And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st. What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves? What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives? When even there where most than praisest me, For writing better, I must envy thee._ BEN: JOHNSON. Upon Master FLETCHERS Incomparable Playes. _Apollo sings, his harpe resounds; give roome, For now behold the golden Pompe is come, Thy Pompe of Playes which thousands come to see, With admiration both of them and thee, O Volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover To be with juice of Cedar washt all over; Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent, To raise an Act to full astonishment; Here melting numbers, words of power to move Young men to swoone, and Maides to dye for love. Love lyes a bleeding here,_ Evadne _there Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where, Here's a_ mad lover, _there that high designe Of_ King and no King (_and the rare Plot thine_) _So that when 'ere wee circumvolve our Eyes, Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varietyes, Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see None writes lov's passion in the world, like Thee._ ROB. HERRICK. On the happy Collection of Master _FLETCHER'S_ Works, never before PRINTED.