On MR. JOHN FLETC[H]ER's ever to be admired Dramaticall Works.
_I've thought upon't; and thus I may gaine bayes,
I will commend thee_ Fletcher, _and thy Playes.
But none but Witts can do't, how then can I
Come in amongst them, that cou'd ne're come nigh?
There is no other way, I'le throng to sit
And passe it'h Croud amongst them for a Wit._
Apollo _knows me not, nor I the Nine,
All my pretence to verse is Love and Wine.
By your leave Gentlemen. You Wits o'th' age,
You that both furnisht have, and judg'd the Stage.
You who the Poet and the Actors fright,
Least that your Censure thin the second night:
Pray tell me, gallant Wits, could Criticks think
There ere was solaecisme in_ FLETCHERS _Inke?
Or Lapse of Plot, or fancy in his pen?
A happinesse not still alow'd to_ Ben!
_After of Time and Wit h'ad been at cost
He of his owne New-Inne was but an Hoste.
Inspired_, FLETCHER! _here's no vaine-glorious words:
How ev'n thy lines, how smooth thy sense accords.
Thy Language so insinuates, each one
Of thy spectators has thy passion.
Men seeing, valiant; Ladies amorous prove:
Thus owe to thee their valour and their Love:
Scenes! chaste yet satisfying! Ladies can't say
Though_ Stephen _miscarri'd that so did the play:
Judgement could ne're to this opinion leane
That_ Lowen, Tailor, _ere could grace thy Scene:
'Tis richly good unacted, and to me
Thy very Farse appears a Comedy.
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