Thy drollery is designe, each looser part
Stuff's not thy Playes, but makes 'em up an Art
The Stage has seldome seen; how often vice
Is smartly scourg'd to checke us? to intice,
How well encourag'd vertue is? how guarded,
And, that which makes us love her, how rewarded?
Some, I dare say, that did with loose thoughts sit,
Reclaim'd by thee, came converts from the pit.
And many a she that to he tane up came,
Tooke up themselves, and after left the game._
HENRY HARINGTON.
To the memory of the deceased but ever-living _Authour_ in these his
_Poems_, Mr. JOHN FLETCHER.
_On the large train of_ Fletchers _friends let me
(Retaining still my wonted modesty,)
Become a Waiter in my ragged verse,
As Follower to the_ Muses _Followers.
Many here are of Noble ranke and worth,
That have, by strength of Art, set_ Fletcher _forth
In true and lively colours, as they saw him,
And had the best abilities to draw him;_
_Many more are abroad, that write, and looke
To have their lines set before_ Fletchers _Booke;
Some, that have known him too; some more, some lesse;
Some onely but by Heare-say, some by Guesse,
And some, for fashion-sake, would take the hint
To try how well their Wits would shew in Print.
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