And grew distracted in most violent Fits
(For_ She _had lost the best part of her_ Wits.)
_In the first yeere, our famous_ Fletcher _fell,
Of good King_ Charles _who graced these_ Poems _well,
Being then in life of Action: But they dyed
Since the Kings absence; or were layd aside,
As is their_ Poet. _Now at the Report
Of the_ Kings _second comming to his Court,
The_ Bookes _creepe from the_ Presse _to Life, not_ Action,
_Crying unto the World, that no protraction
May hinder_ Sacred Majesty _to give_
Fletcher, _in them, leave on the_ Stage _to live.
Others may more in lofty Verses move;
I onely, thus, expresse my Truth and Love._
RIC. BROME.
Upon the Printing of Mr. JOHN FLETCHERS workes.
_What meanes this numerous Guard? or do we come
To file our Names or Verse upon the Tombe
Of_ Fletcher, _and by boldly making knowne
His Wit, betray the Nothing of our Owne?
For if we grant him dead, it is as true
Against our selves, No Wit, no Poet now;
Or if he be returnd from his coole shade,
To us, this Booke his Resurrection's made,
We bleed our selves to death, and but contrive
By our owne Epitaphs to shew him alive.
But let him live and let me prophesie,
As I goe Swan-like out, Our Peace is nigh;
A Balme unto the wounded Age I sing.
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