And bring exploded Wit again in Fashion? I can't but wonder at this Reformation. My skipping Soul furfeits with fo much good, To fee my Hopes into Fruition bud.
A happy Chymiftry! bleft Viper, Joy!
That through thy Mother's Bowels gnaw'ft thy way! Wits flock in Shoals, 39 and club to re-erect In spite of Ignorance the Architect Of Occidental Poefy; and turn
Gods, to recal Wits Afbes from their Urn. Like huge Coloffes, 40 they've together knit Their Shoulders to fupport a World of Wit. The Tale of Atlas (though of Truth it mifs) We plainly read Mythologiz'd in this;
into an entire Volume. This is touch'd at in the 23d Copy of Verfes, by Richard Brome.
For the witty Copies took,
Of bis Encomiums made themfelves a Book. Mr. Theobald.
and club to re-elect
In spite of Ignorance the Architect
Of Occidental Poefy;-] I am now correcting the foul sheet from the Press, at thirty Miles distance from my old Editions, fo know not whether re-elect be the Error of former Preffes or only of the present. I read re-erect, which better correfponds with the Metaphors both in this and the following Sentence. As an Architect his Poems are re-built; as he was dead he was raised to Life.
Their Shoulders to Support a World of Wit.] I fhould not find fault with Met and Wit being made Rhimes here, (the Poets of thofe Times giving themselves fuch a Licence) but that two Perfons meeting their Shoulders is neither Senfe nor English! I am therefore perfuaded the Au thor wrote knit. So twice in the VIIIth Copy by Jasper Maine, In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit, That no Man knows where to divide your Wit.
Nor were you thus in Works and Poems knit, &c.
Orpheus and Amphion, whofe undying Stories Made Athens famous, are but Allegories. 'Tis Poetry has Power to civilize
Men, worse than Stones, more blockish than the Trees. I cannot choose but think (now things fo fall) That Wit is past its Climacterical
And though the Mufes have been dead and gone, I know, they'll find a Refurrection.
'Tis vain to praife; they're to themselves a Glory, And Silence is our sweetest Oratory.
For be, that names but Fletcher, muft needs be Found guilty of a loud Hyperbole.
His Fancy fo tranfcendently afpires, He fhows himself a Wit, who but admires.
Here are no Volumes ftuft with cheverel Senfe,
The very Anagrams of Eloquence;
Nor long-long-winded Sentences that be, Being rightly fell'd, but Wit's Stenography; Nor Words, as void of Reafon, as of Rhime, Only cafura'd to spin out the time.
But here's a Magazine of pureft Senfe, Cloth'd in the newest Garb of Eloquence:
Scenes that are quick and fprightly, in whofe Veins Bubbles the Quinteffence of fweet-high Strains. Lines, like their Authors, and each Word of it Does fay, 'twas writ b' a Gemini of Wit. How happy is our Age! how bleft our Men ! When fuch rare Souls live themfelves d'er again. We err, that think a Poet dies; for this Shews, that 'tis but a Metempfychofis. Beaumont and Fletcher here, at last, we fee Above the reach of dull Mortality,
Or Pow'r of Fate: and thus the Proverb hits, (That's so much cross'd) Thefe Men live by their Alex. Brome.
On the DEATH and WORKS of Mr. JOHN FLETCHER,
Mr Name, fo far from great, that 'tis not known, Can lend no Praife but what thou' dft blush to ownz And no rude Hand, or feeble Wit, fhould dare To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned Tear.
I'd have a State of Wit convok'd, which bath A Power to take up on the common Faith; That, when the Stock of the whole Kingdom's spent In but Preparative to thy Monument,
The prudent Council may invent frefh Ways To get new Contribution to thy Praife; And rear it high, and equal to thy Wit; Which must give Life and Monument to it. 41 So when, tate, Effex dy'd, the publick Face Wore Sorrow in't; and to add mournful Grace To the fad Pomp of his lamented Fall, The Commonwealth ferv'd at his Funeral, And by a folemn Order built his Hearfe; -But not like thine, built by thyself in Verfe. Where thy advanced Image fafely ftands Above the reach of facrilegious Hands.
41 So when, late, Effex dy'd,] The Earl of Effex, who had been General for the Parliament in the Civil War against King Charles the First, dyed on the 14th of September, 1646, and the firft Folio of Beaumant and Fletcher's Works was publish'd in 1647. Mr. Theobald.
Bafe Hands, how impotently you difclofe Your Rage 'gainst Camden's learned Afbes, whofe Defaced Statua and martyr'd Book,
Like an Antiquity and Fragment look. Nonnulla defunt's legibly appear,
So truly now Camden's Remains lye there. Vain Malice! how he mocks thy Rage, while Breath Of Fame fhall Speak his great Elizabeth ! 'Gainft Time and thee he well provided bath; Britannia is the Tomb and Epitaph. Thus Princes Honours; but Wit only gives A Name which to fucceeding Ages lives.
Singly we now confult Ourselves and Fame, Ambitious to twist ours with thy great Name. Hence we thus bold to praife. For as a Vine, With fubtle Wreath and clofe Embrace, doth twine A friendly Elm, by whofe tall Trunk it shoots And gathers Growth and Moisture from its Roots About its Arms the thankful Clufters cling Like Bracelets, and with Purple ammelling The blue-cheek'd Grape, ftuck in its vernant Hair, Hangs like rich Jewels in a beauteous Ear. So grow our Praifes by thy Wit; we do Borrow Support and Strength, and lend but Show. Ob for a Spark of that diviner Fire, Which thy full Breaft did animate and infpire; That Souls could be divided, thou traduce But a fmall Particle of thine to us!
Of thine; which we admir'd when thou didst fit But as a Joint-commiffioner in Wit; When it had Plummets hung on to suppress Its too luxuriant growing Mightiness: 'Till as that Tree which fcorns to be kept down, Thou grew'ft to govern the whole Stage alone.
In which Orb thy throng'd Light did make the Star, Thou wer't th' Intelligence did move that Sphere. Thy Fury was compos'd; Rapture no Fit That bung on thee; nor thou far gone As Men in a Difeafe; thy Fancy clear,
42 Mufe chaft, as thofe Flames whence they took their
No Spurious Composures amongst thine Got in Adultery 'twixt Wit and Wine.
And as th' hermetical Phyficians draw From things that Curfe of the firft-broken Law, That Ens Venenum, which extracted thence Leaves nought but primitive Good and Innocence: So was thy Spirit calcin'd; no Mixtures there But perfect, fuch as next to Simples are. Not like thofe Meteor-wits which wildly fly In Storm and Thunder through th' amazed Sky; Speaking but th' Ills and Villanies in a State, Which Fools admire, and wife Men tremble at, Full of Portent and Prodigy, whofe Gall Oft 'Scapes the Vice, and on the Man doth fall. Nature us'd all her Skill, when thee she meant A Wit at once both Great and Innocent.
Yet thou hadst Tooth; but 'twas thy Judgment, not For mending one Word a whole Sheet to blot.
41 Mufe chaft, as thofe Frames whence they took their Fire ;] This feems obfcure, for what are those Frames whence Fletcher took his Fire? The Stars? Ev'n if this was meant, I fhould think Flames the better Word; but as Flames will fignify heavenly Fire in general, either the Stars, Sun, Angels, or even the Spirit of God himself, who maketh his Minifters Flames of Fire: I much prefer the Word, and believe it the Original. As this Poet was a Clergyman of Character, with regard to his Sanctity, and much celebrates Fletcher's Chastity of Sentiments and Language, it is very evident that many Words which appear grofs to us were not fo in King Charles the Firft's Age. See Page 54, 55, and 56 of the Preface.
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