JOHN HARRIS. On MR. JOHN FLETC[H]ER's ever to be admired Dramaticall Works. _I've thought upon't; and thus I may gaine bayes, I will commend thee_ Fletcher, _and thy Playes. But none but Witts can do't, how then can I Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh? There is no other way, I'le throng to sit And passe it'h Croud amongst them for a Wit._ Apollo _knows me not, nor I the Nine, All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine. By your leave Gentlemen. You Wits o'th' age, You that both furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage. You who the Poet and the Actors fright, Least that your Censure thin the second night: Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think There ere was solæcisme in_ FLETCHERS _Inke? Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen? A happinesse not still alow'd to_ Ben! _After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste. Inspired_, FLETCHER! _here's no vaine-glorious words: How ev'n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords. Thy Language so insinuates, each one Of thy spectators has thy passion. Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove: Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love: Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Ladies can't say Though_ Stephen _miscarri'd that so did the play: Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane That_ Lowen, Tailor, _ere could grace thy Scene: 'Tis richly good unacted, and to me Thy very Farse appears a Comedy. Thy drollery is designe, each looser part Stuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to intice, How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded, And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded? Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit, Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit. And many a she that to he tane up came, Tooke up themselves, and after left the game._ HENRY HARINGTON. To the memory of the deceased but ever-living _Authour_ in these his _Poems_, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.