I Could prayse _Heywood_ now: or tell how long, _Falstaffe_ from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng: But for a _Fletcher_, I must take an Age, And scarce invent the Title for one Page. Gods must create new Spheres, that should expresse The sev'rall Accents, _Fletcher_, of thy Dresse: The Penne of Fates should only write thy Praise: And all _Elizium_ for thee turne to Bayes. Thou feltst no pangs of Poetry, such as they. Who the Heav'ns quarter still before a Play, And search the _Ephemerides_ to finde, When the Aspect for Poets will be kinde. Thy Poems (sacred Spring) did from thee flow, With as much pleasure, as we reads them now. Nor neede we only take them up by fits, When love or Physicke hath diseased our Wits; Or constr'e English to untye a knot. Hid in a line, farre subtler then the Plot. With Thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes, And yet with thee the serious Student Rise: The Eye at sev'rall angles darting rayes, Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Playes To ev'ry understanding still appeare, As if thou only meant'st to take that Eare; The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise, Where ev'ry word ha's weight and yet no Noise, The matter too so nobly fit, no lesse Then such as onely could deserve thy Dresse: Witnesse thy Comedies, Pieces of such worth, All Ages shall still like, but ne're bring forth. Other in season last scarce so long time, As cost the Poet but to make the Rime: Where, if a Lord a new way do's but spit, Or change his shrugge this antiquates the Wit. That thou didst live before, nothing would tell Posterity, could they but write so well. Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance finde, Not whilst an humours living, but Man-kinde. Thou, like thy Writings, Innocent and Cleane, Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scæne, None of thy Inke had gall, and Ladies can, Securely heare thee sport without a Fanne. But when Thy Tragicke Muse would please to rise In Majestie, and call Tribute from our Eyes; Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so, Who only came to see, turned Actors too. How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feele The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele! Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knows When the Spectators ran to save the blow? Frozen with griefe we could not stir away Untill the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play. What shall I doe? all Commendations end, In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend? Give me thy spirit quickely, for I swell, And like a raveing Prophetesse cannot tell How to receive thy Genius in my breast: Oh! I must sleepe, and then I'le sing the rest. T. Palmer of Ch. Ch. Oxon. Upon the unparalelld Playes written by those Renowned Twinnes of Poetry BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.