_
Johnson _hath writ things lasting, and divine,
Yet his Love-Scenes,_ Fletcher, _compar'd to thine,
Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,
As heat with Ice, or warme fires mixt with Snow;
Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts,
Which burne, and raigne in noble Lovers hearts,
Hast cloath'd affections in such native tires,
And so describ'd them in their owne true fires;
Such moving sighes, suc[h] undissembled teares,
Such charmes of language, such hopes mixt with feares,
Such grants after denialls, such pursuits
After despaire, such amorous recruits,
That some who sate spectators have confest
Themselves transformed to what they saw exprest,
And felt such shafts steale through their captiv'd sence,
As made them rise Parts, and goe Lovers thence.
Nor was thy stile wholly compos'd of Groves,
Or the soft straines of Shepheards and their Loves;
When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth
In that kinde, came into the world all mirth,
All point, all edge, all sharpnesse; we did sit
Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,
Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubt
In which Scene we laught most two shillings out._
Shakespeare _to thee was dull, whose best jest lyes
I'th Ladies questions, and the Fooles replyes;
Old fashioned wit, which walkt from town to town
In turn'd Hose, which our fathers call'd the Clown;
Whose wit our nice times would obsceannesse call,
And which made Bawdry passe for Comicall:_
_Nature was all his Art, thy veine was free
As his, but without his scurility;
From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplext,
But without labour cleane, chast, and unvext.
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