Alas what flegme are they, compared to thee,
In thy_ Philaster, _and_ Maids-Tragedy?
_Where's such an humour as thy_ Bessus? _pray
Let them put all their_ Thrasoes _in one Play,
He shall out-bid them; their conceit was poore,
All in a Circle of a Bawd or Whore;
A cozning dance, take the foole away,
And not a good jest extant in a Play.
Yet these are Wits, because they'r old, and now
Being Greeke and Latine, they are Learning too:
But those their owne Times were content t' allow
A thirsty fame, and thine is lowest now.
But thou shalt live, and when thy Name is growne
Six Ages older, shall be better knowne,
When th' art of_ Chaucers _standing in the Tombe,
Thou shalt not share, but take up all his roome._
Joh. Earle.
UPON Mr FLETCHERS
Incomparable Playes.
_The Poet lives; wonder not how or why_
Fletcher _revives, but that he er'e could dye:
Safe_ Mirth, _full_ Language, _flow in ev'ry Page,
At once he doth both_ heighten _and_ aswage;
_All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and cleare,
Nor_ Church _nor_ Lawes _were ever Libel'd here;
But faire deductions drawn from his great Braine,
Enough to conquer all that's_ False _or_ Vaine;
_He scatters Wit, and Sence so freely flings
That very_ Citizens _speake handsome things,
Teaching their_ Wives _such unaffected grace,
Their_ Looks _are now as handsome as their_ Face.
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