J. BERKENHEAD.
To the memorie of Master _FLETCHER._
_There's nothing gained by being witty: Fame
Gathers but winde to blather up a name_.
Orpheus _must leave his lyre, or if it be
In heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony,
And stones, that follow'd him, may now become
Now stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb.
The Theban_ Linus, _that was ably skil'd
In Muse and Musicke, was by_ Phoebus _kill'd,
Though_ Phoebus _did beget him: sure his Art
Had merited his balsame, not his dart.
But here_ Apollo's _jealousie is seene,
The god of Physicks troubled with the spleene;
Like timerous Kings he puts a period
To high grown parts lest he should be no God.
Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gave
Life to the world, could not avoid a grave.
Hence the inspired Prophets of old_ Rome
_Too great for earth fled to_ Elizium.
_But the same Ostracisme benighted one,
To whom all these were but illusion;
It tooke our_ FLETCHER _hence_, Fletcher, _whose wit
Was not an accident to th' soule, but It;
Onely diffused. (Thus wee the same Sun call,
Moving it'h Sphaere, and shining on a wall.)
Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climbe,
Wit, that ne're grew, but only show'd by time.
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