From thy great Conftellation (noble Soul)
Look on this Kingdom; fuffer not the whole
Spirit of Poefy retire to Heaven;
But make us entertain what thou haft given.
Earthquakes and Thunder Diapafons make;
The Seas vaft Roar, and irrefiftless Shake
Of horrid Winds, a Sympathy compofe;
So in these things there's Mufick in the Clofe:
And though they feem great Difcords in our Ears,
They are not fo to them above the Spheres.
Granting thefe Mufick, how much sweeter's That
Mnemofyne's Daughters Voices do create?
Since Heav'n, and Earth, and Seas, and Air confent
To make an Harmony, (the Inftrument,
Their own agreeing felves) fhall we refuse
The Mufick which the Deities do ufe?
Troy's ravisht Ganymede doth fing to Jove,
And Phoebus felf plays on his Lyre Above.
The Cretan Gods, or glorious Men, who will
Imitate right, must wonder at thy Skill;
Beft Poet of thy Times! or they will prove
As mad, as thy brave Memnon was with Love.
47 Afton Cokaine, Bart.] This Gentleman who claim'd being made a Baronet by King Charles I. at a Time when the King's Distress prevented the Creation paffing the due Forms, was a Poet of fome Repute, for which Reason this Copy is inferted more than for its intrinfic Worth. He was Lord of the Manors of Pooley in Polefworth Parish, Warwickfhire, and of Ashburn in Derbyshire; but with a Fate not uncommon to Wits, spent and fold both; but his Defcendants of this Age have been and are Perfons of diftinguish'd Merit and Fortune.
On the Edition of Mr. FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S, and Mr. JOHN FLETCHER'S PLAYS, never printed before.
Am amaz'd; and this fame Extafy
Is both my Glory and Apology.
Sober Joys are dull Paffions; they must bear
Proportion to the Subject: if fo, where
Beaumont and Fletcher fhall vouchsafe to be
The Subject, That Joy must be Extasy.
Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;
The Fool's Diftemper: He, that's Mad by Fits,
Is wife fo too. It is the Poet's Mufe;
The Prophet's God; the Fool's, and my Excufe.
For (in Me) nothing less than Fletcher's Name
Could have begot, or justify'd, this Flame.
Beaumont
Return'd! methinks, it should not be: No, not in's Works; Plays are as Dead as He. The Palate of this Age gufts nothing High; That has not Custard in't, or Bawdery. Folly and Madness fill the Stage: The Scene Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the Mean, The Fool 'Scape well enough; Learned and Great, Suffer an Oftracifm; ftand exulate.
Mankind is fall'n again, fhrunk a Degree,
A Step below his very Apoftacy.
Nature her Self is out of Tune; and Sick
Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatick.
Yet what World would not cheerfully endure
The Torture, or Difeafe, t' enjoy the Cure?
This Book's the Balfam, and the Hellebore,
Must preserve bleeding Nature, and restore
Our crazy Stupor to a juft quick Senfe
Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.
That teaches us (at Once) to feele and know,
Two deep Points: What we Want, and what we Owe.
Yet Great Goods have their Ills: Should we tranfmit,
To future Times, the Pow'r of Love and Wit,
In this Example: would they not combine,
To make Our Imperfections Their Defign?
They'd ftudy our Corruptions; and take more
Care to be Ill, than to be Good, before.
For nothing, but fo great Infirmity,
Could make Them worthy of fuch Remedy.
Have you not feen the Sun's almighty Ray
Refcue th' affrighted World, and redeem Day
From black Defpair? how his victorious Beam
Scatters the Storm, and drowns the petty Flame
Of Lightning, in the Glory of his Eye:
How full of Pow'r, how full of Majefty?
When, to us Mortals, nothing else was known,
But the fad Doubt, whether to burn, or drown.
Choler, and Phlegme, Heat, and dull Ignorance,
Have caft the People into fuch a Trance,
That Fears and Danger feem Great equally,
And no Difpute left now, but how to die.
Juft in this nick, Fletcher fets the World clear
Of all Disorder, and reforms us here.
The formal Youth, that knew no other Grace,
Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,
Glaffes himself: and, in this faithful Mirror,
Views, difapproves, reforms, repents his Error.
The credulous, bright Girl, that believes all
Language, in Oaths (if good) Canonical,
Is fortify'd, and taught, here, to beware
Of ev'ry fpecious Bait, of ev'ry Snare
Save one; and that same Caution takes her more,
Than all the Flattery the felt before.
She finds her Boxes, and her Thoughts betray'd
By the Corruption of the Chamber-Maid;
Then throws her Washes and Diffemblings by;
And vows nothing but Ingenuity.
The fevere Statefman quits his fullen Form
Of Gravity and Bus'nefs; The Lukewarm
Religious, his Neutrality; The hot
Brainfick Illuminate, his Zeal; The Sot,
Stupidity; The Soldier, his Arrears;
The Court, its Confidence; The Plebs, their Fears;
Gallants, their Apishness and Perjury;
Women, their Pleafure and Inconftancy;
Poets, their Wine; the Ufurer, his Pelf;
The World, its Vanity; and I, my Self.
FLetcher (whofe Fame no Age can ever waste;
Envy of ours, and Glory of the last)
Is now alive again; and with his Name
His facred Afbes wak'd into a Flame
Such as before, did by a fecret Charm
The wildeft Heart fubdue, the coldest warm ;
48 For the fame Reafon that Sir Afton Cockain's Poem is reprinted, Sir Roger L'Eftrange's keeps its Place. His Name is well known to the learned World, but this Copy of Verfes does no great Honour either to himself or our Authors.
And lend the Ladies' Eyes a Power more bright,
Difpenfing thus to either, Heat and Light.
He to a Sympathy thofe Souls betray'd,
Whom Love, or Beauty, never could perfwade;
And in each mov'd Spectator could beget
A real Paffion by a Counterfeit :
When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
Did not for every Drop let fall a Tear?
And when Afpafia wept, not any Eye
But feem'd to wear the fame fad Livery;
By him infpir'd, the feign'd Lucina drew
More Streams of melting Sorrow than the true;
But then the Scornful Lady did beguile
Their eafy Griefs, and teach them all to fmile.
Thus he Affections could, or raife, or lay;
Love, Grief, and Mirth, thus did his Charms obey;
He Nature taught her Paffions to out-do,
How to refine the old, and create new;
Which fuch a happy Likeness seem'd to bear,
As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
Yet all had nothing been, obfcurely kept
In the fame Urn wherein his Duft hath slept ;
Nor had he ris' the Delphic Wreath to claim,
Had not the dying Scene expir'd his Name;
Defpair our Foy bath doubled, he is come;
Thrice welcome by this Poft-liminium.
His Lofs preferv'd him; They, that filenc'd Wit,
Are now the Authors to Eternize it;
Thus Poets are in fight of Fate reviv'd,
And Plays by Intermiffion longer-liv'd.
49 Tho. Stanley.
49 Mr. Stanley educated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, was a Poet of fome Eminence, and his Verfes have Merit; and contain a Proof of what is afferted in the Preface, of Plays being kept unpublish'd for the Benefit of the Players.
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