No fier-worke of sacke, no seldome show'n
Poeticke rage, but still in motion:
And with far more then Sphericke excellence
It mov'd, for 'twas its owns Intelligence.
And yet so obvious to sense, so plaine,
You'd scarcely thinke't allyd unto the braine:_
_So sweete, it gained more ground upon the Stage
Then_ Johnson _with his selfe-admiring rage
Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell,
That fooles would think, that they could doe as well.
This is our losse: yet spight of_ Phoebus, _we
Will keepe our_ FLETCHER, _for his wit is He_.
EDW. POWELL.
Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His PLAYES.
_What's all this preparation for? or why
Such suddain Triumphs?_ FLETCHER _the people cry!
Just so, when Kings approach, our Conduits run
Claret, as here the spouts flow_ Helicon;
_See, every sprightfull_ Muse _dressed trim and gay
Strews hearts and scatters roses in his way.
Thus th'outward yard set round with_ bayes _w'have seene,
Which from the garden hath transplanted been:
Thus, at the Praetor's feast, with needlesse costs
Some must b'employd in painting of the posts:
And some as dishes made for sight, not taste,
Stand here as things for shew to_ FLETCHERS _feast.
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