_There's nothing gained by being witty: Fame Gathers but winde to blather up a name_. Orpheus _must leave his lyre, or if it be In heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony, And stones, that follow'd him, may now become Now stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb. The Theban_ Linus, _that was ably skil'd In Muse and Musicke, was by_ Phoebus _kill'd, Though_ Phoebus _did beget him: sure his Art Had merited his balsame, not his dart. But here_ Apollo's _jealousie is seene, The god of Physicks troubled with the spleene; Like timerous Kings he puts a period To high grown parts lest he should be no God. Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gave Life to the world, could not avoid a grave. Hence the inspired Prophets of old_ Rome _Too great for earth fled to_ Elizium. _But the same Ostracisme benighted one, To whom all these were but illusion; It tooke our_ FLETCHER _hence_, Fletcher, _whose wit Was not an accident to th' soule, but It; Onely diffused. (Thus wee the same Sun call, Moving it'h Sphære, and shining on a wall.) Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climbe, Wit, that ne're grew, but only show'd by time. No fier-worke of sacke, no seldome show'n Poeticke rage, but still in motion: And with far more then Sphericke excellence It mov'd, for 'twas its owns Intelligence. And yet so obvious to sense, so plaine, You'd scarcely thinke't allyd unto the braine:_ _So sweete, it gained more ground upon the Stage Then_ Johnson _with his selfe-admiring rage Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell, That fooles would think, that they could doe as well. This is our losse: yet spight of_ Phoebus, _we Will keepe our_ FLETCHER, _for his wit is He_. EDW. POWELL. Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His PLAYES.