_Nor is this violent, he steals upon
The yeilding Soule untill the_ Phrensie's _gone_;
_His very_ Launcings _do the Patient_ please,
_As when good_ Musicke _cures a_ Mad Disease.
_Small Poets rifle Him, yet thinke it faire,
Because they rob a man that well can spare;
They feed upon him, owe him every bit,
Th'are all but_ Sub-excisemen _of his Wit._
J. M.
On the Workes of _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_, now at length printed.
_Great paire of Authors, whom one equall Starre
Begot so like in_ Genius, _that you are
In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit,
That no man knowes where to divide your wit,
Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire,
And did each other mutually inspire;
Whether one did contrive, the other write,
Or one framed the plot, the other did indite;
Whether one found the matter, th'other dresse,
Or the one disposed what th'other did expresse;
Where e're your parts betweene your selves lay, we,
In all things which you did but one thred see,
So evenly drawne out, so gently spunne,
That Art with Nature nere did smoother run.
Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what part
Of all your numerous Labours hath desert
More to be fam'd then other? shall I say,
I've met a lover so drawne in your Play,
So passionately written, so inflamed,
So jealously inraged, then gently tam'd,
That I in reading have the Person seene.
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