And though upon the by, to his designes
The_ Native _may learne English from his lines,
And_ th' Alien _if he can but construe it,
May here be made free_ Denison _of wit.
But his maine end does drooping_ Vertue _raise,
And crownes her beauty with eternall_ Bayes;
_In Scaenes where she inflames the frozen soule,
While_ Vice _(her paint washt off) appeares so foule;
She must this_ Blessed Isle _and Europe leave,
And some new_ Quadrant _of the_ Globe _deceive:
Or hide her Blushes on the_ Affrike _shore
Like_ Marius, _but ne're rise to_ triumph _more;
That_ honour _is resign'd to_ Fletchers _fame;
Adde to his Trophies, that a_ Poets _name
(Late growne as odious to our_ Moderne _states
As that of_ King _to Rome) he vindicates
From black aspertions, cast upon't by those
Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.
_And_, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,
_What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,
When we name_ Fletcher _shall be so proclaimed,
As all that's_ Royall _is when_ Caesar's _nam'd.
ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.
To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. _Francis Beaumont_.
_I'le not pronounce how strong and cleane thou writes,
Nor by what new hard Rules thou took'st thy Flights,
Nor how much_ Greek _and_ Latin _some refine
Before they can make up six words of thine,
But this I'le say, thou strik'st our sense so deep,
At once thou mak'st us Blush, Rejoyce, and Weep.
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