What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there where most than praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee._
BEN: JOHNSON.
Upon Master FLETCHERS Incomparable Playes.
_Apollo sings, his harpe resounds; give roome,
For now behold the golden Pompe is come,
Thy Pompe of Playes which thousands come to see,
With admiration both of them and thee,
O Volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover
To be with juice of Cedar washt all over;
Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent,
To raise an Act to full astonishment;
Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoone, and Maides to dye for love.
Love lyes a bleeding here,_ Evadne _there
Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where,
Here's a_ mad lover, _there that high designe
Of_ King and no King (_and the rare Plot thine_)
_So that when 'ere wee circumvolve our Eyes,
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varietyes,
Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see
None writes lov's passion in the world, like Thee._
ROB. HERRICK.
On the happy Collection of Master _FLETCHER'S_ Works, never before
PRINTED.
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