The Cretan Gods, or glorious men, who will
Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill,
Best Poet of thy times, or he will prove
As mad as thy brave_ Memnon _was with love._
ASTON COKAINE, Baronet.
Upon the Works of BEAUMONT,
and FLETCHER.
_How_ Angels (_cloyster'd in our humane Cells_)
_Maintaine their parley,_ Beaumont-Fletcher _tels;
Whose strange unimitable Intercourse
Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force
Of the most forward soules; all must submit
Untill they reach these_ Mysteries _of Wit.
The_ Intellectuall Language _here's exprest,
Admir'd in better times, and dares the Test
Of Ours; for from_ Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, _and_ Sence,
_This Volume springs a new true_ Quintessence.
JO. PETTUS, Knight.
On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. _John F[l]etcher_,
never before Printed.
Haile_ Fletcher, _welcome to the worlds great Stage;
For our two houres, we have thee here an age
In thy whole Works, and may th'_ Impression _call
The_ Pretor _that presents thy Playes to all:
Both to the People, and the_ Lords _that sway
That_ Herd, _and Ladies whom those Lords obey.
And what's the Loadstone can such guests invite
But moves on two Poles,_ Profit _and_ Delight,
_Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest
When every one is tickled with a jest:
And that pure_ Fletcher, _able to subdue
A_ Melancholy _more then_ Burton _knew.
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