A happy_ Chimistry! _blest viper_, joy!
_That through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way!
Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect
In spight of_ Ignorance _the Architect
Of Occidentall_ Poesye; _and turne
Godds, to recall_ witts _ashes from their urne.
Like huge_ Collosses _they've together mett
Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt.
The tale of_ Atlas (_though of truth it misse_)
_We plainely read_ Mythologiz'd _in this_;
Orpheus _and_ Amphion _whose undying stories
Made_ Athens _famous, are but_ Allegories.
_Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilize
Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees,
I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall)
That witt is past its_ Climactericall;
_And though the_ Muses _have beene dead and gone
I know they'll finde a_ Resurrection.
_Tis vaine to prayse; they're to themselves a glory,
And silence is our sweetest_ Oratory.
_For he that names but_ FLETCHER _must needs be
Found guilty of a loud_ hyperbole.
_His fancy so transcendently aspires,
He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires.
Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,
The very_ Anagrams _of Eloquence,
Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,
Being rightly spelld, but Witts_ Stenographie.
_Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,
Only cesura'd to spin out the time.
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