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.

My name, so far from great, that tis not knowne, Can lend no praise but what thou'dst blush to own; And no rude hand, or feeble wit should dare To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned teare. I'de have a State of Wit convoked, which hath A power to take up on common Faith; That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome's spent In but preparative to thy Monument, The prudent Councell may invent fresh wayes To get new contribution to thy prayse, And reare it high, and equall to thy Wit Which must give life and Monument to it. So when late ESSEX dy'd, the Publicke face Wore sorrow in't, and to add mournefull Grace To the sad pomp of his lamented fall, The Common wealth served at his Funerall And by a Solemne Order built his Hearse. But not like thine, built by thy selfe, in Verse, Where thy advanced Image safely stands Above the reach of Sacrilegious hands. Base hands how impotently you disclose Your rage 'gainst Camdens learned ashes, whose Defaced Statua and Martyrd booke, Like an Antiquitie and Fragment looke. Nonnulla desunt's legibly appeare, So truly now Camdens Remaines lye there. Vaine Malice! how he mocks thy rage, while breath Of fame shall speake his great Elizabeth! 'Gainst time and thee he well provided hath, Brittannia is the Tombe and Epitaph. Thus Princes honours: but Witt only gives A name which to succeeding ages lives. Singly we now consult our selves and fame, Ambitious to twist ours with thy great name. Hence we thus bold to praise. For as a Vine With subtle wreath, and close embrace doth twine A friendly Elme, by whose tall trunke it shoots And gathers growth and moysture from its roots; About its armes the thankfull clusters cling Like Bracelets, and with purple ammelling The blew-cheek'd grape stuck in its vernant haire Hangs like rich Jewells in a beauteous eare. So grow our Prayses by thy Witt; we doe Borrow support and strength and lend but show. And but thy Male wit like the youthfull Sun Strongly begets upon our passion. Making our sorrow teeme with Elegie, Thou yet unwep'd, and yet unprais'd might'st be. But th' are imperfect births; and such are all Produc'd by causes not univocall, The scapes of Nature, Passives being unfit, And hence our verse speakes only Mother wit. Oh for a fit o'th Father! for a Spirit That might but parcell of thy worth inherit; For but a sparke of that diviner fire Which thy full breast did animate and inspire; That Soules could be divided, thou traduce But a small particle of thine to us! Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst sit But as a joynt-Commissioner in Wit; When it had plummets hung on to suppresse It's too luxuriant growing mightinesse: Till as that tree which scornes to bee kept downe, Thou grewst to govern the whole Stage alone. In which orbe thy throng'd light did make the star, Thou wert th' Intelligence did move that Sphere. Thy Fury was composed; Rapture no fit That hung on thee; nor thou far gone in witt As men in a disease; thy Phansie cleare, Muse chast, as those frames whence they tooke their fire; No spurious composures amongst thine Got in adultery 'twixt Witt and Wine. And as th' Hermeticall Physitians draw From things that curse of the first-broken Law, That Ens Venenum, which extracted thence Leaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence: So was thy Spirit calcined; no Mixtures there But perfect, such as next to Simples are. Not like those Meteor-wits which wildly flye In storme and thunder through th' amazed skie; Speaking but th'Ills and Villanies in a State, Which fooles admire, and wise men tremble at, Full of portent and prodigie, whose Gall Oft scapes the Vice, and on the man doth fall. Nature us'd all her skill, when thee she meant A Wit at once both Great and Innocent. Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy judgement, not For mending one word, a whole sheet to blot. Thou couldst anatomize with ready art And skilfull hand crimes lockt close up i'th heart. Thou couldst unfold darke Plots, and shew that path By which Ambition climbed to Greatnesse hath. Thou couldst the rises, turnes, and falls of States, How neare they were their Periods and Dates; Couldst mad the Subject into popular rage, And the grown seas of that great storme asswage, Dethrone usurping Tyrants, and place there The lawfull Prince and true Inheriter; Knewst all darke turnings in the Labyrinth Of policie, which who but knowes he sinn'th, Save thee, who un-infected didst walke in't As the great Genius of Government. And when thou laidst thy tragicke buskin by To Court the Stage with gentle Comedie, How new, how proper th' humours, how express'd In rich variety, how neatly dress'd In language, how rare Plots, what strength of Wit Shin'd in the face and every limb of it! The Stage grew narrow while thou grewst to be In thy whole life an Exc'llent Comedie. To these a Virgin-modesty which first met Applause with blush and feare, as if he yet Had not deserv'd; till bold with constant praise His browes admitted the unsought for Bayes. Nor would he ravish fame; but left men free To their owne Vote and Ingenuity. When His faire Shepherdesse _on the guilty Stage, Was martir'd betweene Ignorance and Rage; At which the impatient Vertues of those few Could judge, grew high, cri'd Murther; though he knew The innocence and beauty of his Childe, Hee only, as if unconcerned, smil'd. Princes have gather'd since each scattered grace, Each line and beauty of that injur'd face; And on th'united parts breath'd such a fire As spight of Malice she shall ne're expire. Attending, not affecting, thus the crowne Till every hand did help to set it on, Hee came to be sole Monarch, and did raign In Wits great Empire, absolute Soveraign.

Страница 13 из 15

Назад 1…12 13 14 15 Далее