STANLEY.
On the Edition of Mr _Francis Beaumonts_, and Mr _John Fletchers_ PLAYES
never printed before.
I Am _amaz'd_; and this same _Extacye_
Is both my _Glory_ and _Apology_.
_Sober Joyes are dull Passions_; they must beare
Proportion to the _Subject_: if _so_; where
_Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_ shall vouchsafe to be
_That Subject_; _That Joy_ must be _Extacye_.
_Fury_ is the _Complexion_ of _great Wits_;
The _Fooles Distemper_: Hee, thats _mad_ by _fits_,
Is _wise so_ too. It is the _Poets Muse_;
The _Prophets God_: the _Fooles_, and _my excuse_.
For (in _Me_) nothing lesse then _Fletchers Name_
Could have _begot_, or _justify'd_ this _flame_.
_Beaumont_ }
_Fletcher_ } _Return'd?_ methinks it should not be.
_No_, not in's _Works_: _Playes_ are as _dead_ as _He_.
The _Palate_ of _this age gusts_ nothing _High_;
That has not _Custard_ in't or _Bawdery_.
_Folly_ and _Madnesse_ fill the _Stage_: The _Scaene_
Is _Athens_; _where_, the _Guilty_, and the _Meane_,
The _Foole 'scapes_ well enough; _Learned_ and _Great_,
Suffer an _Ostracisme_; stand _Exulate_.
_Mankinde_ is _fall'n againe_, _shrunke_ a _degree_,
A _step_ below his very _Apostacye_.
_Nature_ her _Selfe_ is out of _Tune_; and _Sicke_
Of _Tumult_ and _Disorder_, _Lunatique_.
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