_Had now grim_ BEN _bin breathing, 'with what rage,
And high-swolne fury had Hee lash'd this age_,
SHAKESPEARE _with_ CHAPMAN _had grown madd, and torn
Their gentle_ Sock, _and lofty_ Buskins _worne,
To make their Muse welter up to the chin
In blood; of_ faigned _Scenes no need had bin_,
England _like_ Lucians _Eagle with an Arrow_
Of her owne Plumes piercing her heart quite thorow,
Had bin a Theater and subject fit
To exercise in_ real _truth's their wit:
Tet none like high-wing'd_ FLETCHER _had bin found
This Eagles tragick-destiny to sound,
Rare_ FLETCHER'S _quill_ had soar'd up to the sky,
And drawn down Gods to see the tragedy:
Live famous Dramatist, let every _spring_
Make thy Bay flourish, and fresh_ Bourgeons _bring:
And since we cannot have Thee trod o'th' stage,
Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page_.
JA. HOWELL. _P.C.C._
On the Edition.
Fletcher _(whose Fame no Age can ever wast;
Envy of Ours, and glory of the last)
Is now alive againe; and with his Name
His sacred Ashes wak'd into a Flame;
Such as before did by a secret charme
The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme,
And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light.
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