What's here? another Library of prayse, Met in a Troupe t'advance contemned Playes And bring exploded Witt againe in fashion? I can't but wonder at this Reformation, _My skipping soule surfets with so much good, To see my hopes into_ fruition _budd. A happy_ Chimistry! _blest viper_, joy! _That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way! Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect In spight of_ Ignorance _the Architect Of Occidentall_ Poesye; _and turne Godds, to recall_ witts _ashes from their urne. Like huge_ Collosses _they've together mett Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt. The tale of_ Atlas (_though of truth it misse_) _We plainely read_ Mythologiz'd _in this_; Orpheus _and_ Amphion _whose undying stories Made_ Athens _famous, are but_ Allegories. _Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilize Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees, I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall) That witt is past its_ Climactericall; _And though the_ Muses _have beene dead and gone I know they'll finde a_ Resurrection. _Tis vaine to prayse; they're to themselves a glory, And silence is our sweetest_ Oratory. _For he that names but_ FLETCHER _must needs be Found guilty of a loud_ hyperbole. _His fancy so transcendently aspires, He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires. Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence, The very_ Anagrams _of Eloquence, Nor long-long-winded sentences that be, Being rightly spelld, but Witts_ Stenographie. _Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme, Only cesura'd to spin out the time. But heer's a_ Magazine _of purest sence Cloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence. Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veines Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines. Lines like their_ Authours, _and each word of it Does say twas writ b' a_ Gemini _of Witt. How happie is our age! how blest our men! When such rare soules live themselves o're agen. We erre, that thinke a Poet dyes; for this, Shewes that tis but a_ Metempsychosis. BEAUMONT _and_ FLETCHER _here at last we see Above the reach of dull mortalitie, Or pow'r of fate: thus the proverbe hitts (Thats so much crost) These men live by their witts_. ALEX. BROME. On the Death and workes of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.