And who could succour him, whose quill
Did both Run sense and sense Distill?
Had Time and Art in't, and the while
Slid even as theirs wh'are only style,
Whether his chance did cast it so
Or that it did like Rivers flow
Because it must, or whether twere
A smoothnesse from his file and care,
Not the most strict enquiring nayle
Cou'd e're finde where his piece did faile
Of entyre onenesse; so the frame,
Was Composition, yet the same.
How does he breede his Brother! and
Make wealth and estate understand?
Sutes Land to wit, makes Lucke match merit,
And makes an Eldest fitly inherit:
How was he _Ben_, when _Ben_ did write
Toth' stage, not to his judge endite?
How did he doe what _Johnson_ did.
And Earne what _Johnson_ wou'd have s'ed?
Jos. Howe of Trin. Coll. Oxon.
Master _John Fletcher_ his dramaticall
Workes now at last printed.
I Could prayse _Heywood_ now: or tell how long,
_Falstaffe_ from cracking Nuts hath kept the throng:
But for a _Fletcher_, I must take an Age,
And scarce invent the Title for one Page.
Gods must create new Spheres, that should expresse
The sev'rall Accents, _Fletcher_, of thy Dresse:
The Penne of Fates should only write thy Praise:
And all _Elizium_ for thee turne to Bayes.
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