Thus Twinns: But as when Fate one Eye deprives, That other strives to double which survives: So_ BEAUMONT _dy'd: yet left in Legacy His Rules and Standard-wit_ (FLETCHER) _to Thee. Still the same Planet, though not fill'd so soon, A Two-horn'd_ Crescent _then, now one_ Full-moon. _Joynt_ Love _before, now_ Honour _doth provoke; So th' old Twin_-Giants _forcing a huge Oake One slipp'd his footing, th' Other sees him fall, Grasp'd the whole Tree and single held up all. Imperiall_ FLETCHER! _here begins thy Raigne, Scenes flow like Sun-beams from thy glorious Brain; Thy swift dispatching Soule no more doth stay Then He that built two Citties in one day; Ever brim full, and sometimes running o're To feede poore languid Witts that waite at doore, Who creep and creep, yet ne're above-ground stood, (For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood) But thou art still that_ Bird of Paradise _Which hath_ no feet _and ever nobly_ flies: _Rich, lusty Sence, such as the_ Poet _ought, For_ Poems _if not Excellent, are Naught; Low wit in Scenes? in state a Peasant goes; If meane and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose, That such may spell as are not Readers grown, To whom He that writes Wit, shews he hath none._ _Brave_ Shakespeare _flow'd, yet had his Ebbings too, Often above Himselfe, sometimes below; Thou Alwayes Best; if ought seem'd to decline, 'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not Thine: Thus thy faire_ SHEPHEARDESSE, _which the bold Heape (False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,_ _Was found (when understood) fit to be Crown'd, At wont 'twas worth_ two hundred thousand pound. _Some blast thy_ Works _lest we should track their Walke Where they steale all those few good things they talke; Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on, For Plundered folkes ought to be rail'd upon; But (as stoln goods goe off at halfe their worth) Thy strong Sence_ pall's _when they purloine it forth. When did'st_ Thou _borrow? wkere's the man e're read Ought begged by_ Thee _from those Alive or Dead? Or from dry_ Goddesses, _as some who when They stuffe their page with Godds, write worse then Men. Thou was't thine_ owne _Muse, and hadst such vast odds Thou out-writ'st him whose verse_ made _all those_ Godds: _Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age up reares, As much as_ Greeks _or_ Latines _thee in yeares: Thy Ocean Fancy knew nor Bankes nor Damms, We ebbe downe dry to pebble_-Anagrams; _Dead and insipid, all despairing sit Lost to behold this great_ Relapse _of_ Wit: _What strength remaines, is like that (wilde and fierce) Till_ Johnson _made good Poets and right Verse. Such boyst'rous Trifles Thy Muse would not brooke, Save when she'd show how scurvily they looke; No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great) Thou dost_ display, _not_ butcher _a Conceit; Thy Nerves have_ Beauty, _which Invades and Charms;