Who has a greater share of Wit, who lesse. 'Way Foole, another says. I, let him raile, And 'bout his own eares flourish his Wit-flayle, Till with his Swingle he his Noddle breake; While this of_ Fletcher _and his_ Works _I speake: His_ Works (_says_ Momus) _nay, his_ Plays _you'd say: Thou hast said right, for that to him was Play Which was to others braines a toyle: with ease He playd on Waves which were Their troubled Seas. His nimble Births have longer liv'd then theirs That have, with strongest Labour, divers yeeres Been sending forth [t]he issues of their Braines Upon the_ Stage; _and shall to th'_ Stationers _gaines Life after life take, till some After-age Shall put down_ Printing, _as this doth the_ Stage; _Which nothing now presents unto the Eye, But in_ Dumb-shews _her own sad_ Tragedy. _'Would there had been no sadder Works abroad, Since her decay, acted in Fields of Blood._ _But to the Man againe, of whom we write, The_ Writer _that made Writing his Delight, Rather then Worke. He did not pumpe, nor drudge, To beget_ Wit, _or manage it: nor trudge To Wit-conventions with Note-booke, to gleane Or steale some Jests to foist into a Scene: He scorn'd those shifts. You that have known him, know The common talke that from his Lips did flow, And run at waste, did savour more of Wit, Then any of his time, or since have writ, (But few excepted) in the Stages way: His_ Scenes _were_ Acts, _and every_ Act _a_ Play. _I knew him in his strength; even then, when_ He _That was the Master of his Art and Me Most knowing_ Johnson (_proud to call him_ Sonne) _In friendly Envy swore, He had out-done_ His very Selfe. _I knew him till he dyed; And, at his dissolution, what a Tide Of sorrow overwhelm'd the_ Stage; _which gave Volleys of sighes to send him to his grave. And grew distracted in most violent Fits (For_ She _had lost the best part of her_ Wits.) _In the first yeere, our famous_ Fletcher _fell, Of good King_ Charles _who graced these_ Poems _well, Being then in life of Action: But they dyed Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside, As is their_ Poët. _Now at the Report Of the_ Kings _second comming to his Court, The_ Bookes _creepe from the_ Presse _to Life, not_ Action, _Crying unto the World, that no protraction May hinder_ Sacred Majesty _to give_ Fletcher, _in them, leave on the_ Stage _to live. Others may more in lofty Verses move; I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love._ RIC. BROME. Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN FLETCHERS workes.