Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who
Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;
Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealth
In Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth;
Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes,
Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes,
Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,
But to their Benefactors dole aspires.
Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy selfe to praise
Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes
Didst write stale commendations to thy Booke,
Which we for_ Beaumonts _or_ Ben. Johnsons _tooke:
That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he
Can truly pay,_ Fletcher, _who writes like thee._
William Cartwright.
On Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT
(then newly dead.)
_He that hath such acutenesse, and such witt,
As would aske ten good heads to husband it;
He that can write so well that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:_
BEAUMONT _is dead, by whose sole death appeares,
Witt's a Disease consumes men in few yeares._
RICH. CORBET. D.D.
To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)
_How I doe love thee_ BEAUMONT, _and thy_ Muse,
_That unto me do'st such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
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