Oh what an honour! what a Grace 'thad beene
T'have had his Cooke in_ Rollo _serv'd them in!_
FLETCHER _the King of Poets! such was he,
That earned all tribute, claimed all soveraignty;
And may he that denye's it, learn to blush
At's_ loyall Subject, _starve at's_ Beggars bush:
_And if not drawn by example, shame, nor Grace,
Turne o've to's_ Coxcomb, _and the Wild-goose Chase.
Monarch of Wit! great Magazine of wealth!
From whose rich_ Banke, _by a Promethean-stealth,
Our lesser flames doe blaze! His the true fire,
When they like Glo-worms, being touch'd, expire,
'Twas first beleev'd, because he alwayes was,
The_ Ipse dixit, _and_ Pythagoras
_To our Disciple-wits; His soule might run
(By the same-dream't-of Transmigration)
Into their rude and indigested braine,
And so informe their Chaos-lump againe;
For many specious brats of this last age
Spoke_ FLETCHER _perfectly in every Page.
This rowz'd his Rage to be abused thus:
Made'_s Lover mad, Lieutenant humerous.
_Thus_ Ends of Gold and Silver-men _are made
(As th'use to say) Goldsmiths of his owne trade;
Thus_ Rag-men _from the dung-hill often hop,
And publish forth by chance a Brokers shop:
But by his owne light, now, we have descri'd
The drosse, from that hath beene so purely tri'd_.
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