The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher in Ten Volumes - Beaumont and Fletcher
Have you not scene the Suns almighty Ray
Rescue th' affrighted World_, and _redeeme Day_
From _blacke despaire_: how his _victorious Beame_
_Scatters_ the _Storme_, and _drownes_ the _petty flame_
Of _Lightning_, in the _glory_ of his _eye_:
How _full_ of _pow'r_, how _full_ of _Majesty?_
When to _us Mortals, nothing_ else was _knowne_,
But the _sad doubt_, whether to _burne_, or _drowne_.
_Choler_, and _Phlegme, Heat_, and _dull Ignorance,_
Have cast _the people_ into _such_ a _Trance_,
That _feares_ and _danger_ seeme _Great equally_,
And no _dispute_ left now, but _how_ to _dye_.
Just in _this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare_
Of all disorder and reformes us here.
The _formall Youth_, that knew _no_ other _Grace_,
Or _Value_, but his _Title_, and his _Lace_,
_Glasses himselfe_: and in _this faithfull Mirrour_,
_Views, disaproves, reformes, repents_ his _Errour_.
The _Credulous, bright Girle_, that _beleeves all_
_Language_, (in _Othes_) if _Good, Canonicall_,
Is _fortifi'd_, and _taught, here_, to _beware_
Of _ev'ry_ specious _bayte_, of _ev'ry snare_
Save _one_: and _that_ same _Caution_ takes her _more_,
Then _all_ the _flattery_ she _felt before_.
She finds her _Boxes_, and her _Thoughts betray'd_
By the _Corruption_ of the _Chambermaide_:
_Then throwes_ her _Washes_ and _dissemblings_ By;
And _Vowes_ nothing but _Ingenuity_.
The _severe States-man quits_ his _sullen forme_
Of _Gravity_ and _bus'nesse_; The _Luke-warme_
_Religious_ his _Neutrality_; The _hot_
_Braine-sicke Illuminate_ his _zeale; The Sot_
_Stupidity_; The _Souldier_ his _Arreares_;
The _Court_ its _Confidence_; The _Plebs_ their _feares_;
_Gallants_ their _Apishnesse_ and _Perjurie_,
_Women_ their _Pleasure_ and _Inconstancie_;
_Poets_ their _Wine_; the _Usurer_ his _Pelfe_;
The _World_ its _Vanity_; and _I_ my _Selfe_.
Roger L'Estrange.
COMMENDATORY
On the Dramatick Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.
_Wonder! who's here?_ Fletcher, _long buried
Reviv'd? Tis he! hee's risen from the Dead.
His winding sheet put off, walks above ground,
Shakes off his Fetters, and is better bound.
And may he not, if rightly understood,
Prove Playes are lawfull? he hath_ made them Good.
_Is any_ Lover Mad? _see here_ Loves Cure;
_Unmarried? to a_ Wife _he may be sure
A rare one_, For a Moneth; _if she displease,
The_ Spanish Curate _gives a Writ of ease.
Enquire_ The Custome of the Country, _then
Shall_ the French Lawyer _set you free againe.
If the two_ Faire Maids _take it wondrous ill,
(One of_ the Inne, _the other of_ the Mill,)
_That th'_ Lovers Progresse _stopt, and they defam'd;
Here's that makes_ Women Pleas'd, _and_ Tamer tamd.
_But who then playes the_ Coxcombe, _or will trie
His_ Wit at severall Weapons, _or else die?_
Nice Valour _and he doubts not to engage
The_ Noble Gentl'man, _in_ Loves Pilgrimage,
_To take revenge on the_ False One, _and run
The_ Honest mans Fortune, _to be undone
Like_ Knight of Malta, _or else_ Captaine _be
Or th'_ Humerous Lieutenant: _goe to Sea_
(A Voyage _for to starve) hee's very loath,
Till we are all at peace, to sweare an Oath,
That then the_ Loyall Subject _may have leave
To lye from_ Beggers Bush, _and undeceive
The Creditor, discharge his debts; Why so,
Since we can't pay to_ Fletcher _what we owe.
Oh could his_ Prophetesse _but tell one_ Chance,
_When that the_ Pilgrimes _shall returne from France.
And once more make this Kingdome, as of late,
The_ Island Princesse, _and we celebrate
A_ Double Marriage; _every one to bring
To_ Fletchers _memory his offering.
That thus at last unsequesters the Stage,
Brings backe the Silver, and the Golden Age_.
Robert Gardiner.
To the _Manes_ of the celebrated Poets and Fellow-writers, _Francis
Beaumont_ and _John Fletcher_, upon the Printing of their excellent
Dramatick Poems.
_Disdaine not Gentle Shades, the lowly praise
Which here I tender your immortall Bayes.
Call it not folly, but my zeale, that I
Strive to eternize you that cannot dye.
And though no Language rightly can commend
What you have writ, save what your selves have penn'd;
Yet let me wonder at those curious straines
(The rich Conceptions of your twin-like Braines)
Which drew the Gods attention; who admir'd
To see our English Stage by you inspir'd.
Whose chiming Muses never fail'd to sing
A Soule-affecting Musicke; ravishing
Both Eare and Intellect, while you do each
Contend with other who shall highest reach
In rare Invention; Conflicts that beget
New strange delight, to see two Fancies met,
That could receive no foile: two wits in growth
So just, as had one Soule informed both.
Thence_ (_Learned_ Fletcher) _sung the muse alone,
As both had done before, thy_ Beaumont _gone.
In whom, as thou, had he outlived, so he
(Snatch'd first away) survived still in thee.
What though distempers of the present Age
Have banish'd your smooth numbers from the Stage?
You shall be gainers by't; it shall confer
To th' making the vast world your Theater.
The Presse shall give to ev'ry man his part,
And we will all be Actors; learne by heart
Those Tragick Scenes and Comicke Straines you writ,
Un-imitable both for Art and Wit;
And at each_ Exit, _as your Fancies rise,
Our hands shall clap deserved Plaudities._
John Web.
To the desert of the Author in his most Ingenious Pieces.
_Thou art above their Censure, whose darke Spirits
Respects but shades of things, and seeming merits;
That have no soule, nor reason to their will,
But rime as ragged, as a Ganders Quill:
Where Pride blowes up the Error, and transfers
Their zeale in Tempests, that so wid'ly errs.
Like heat and Ayre comprest, their blind desires
Mixe with their ends, as raging winds with fires.
Whose Ignorance and Passions, weare an eye
Squint to all parts of true Humanity.
All is_ Apocripha _suits not their vaine:
For wit, oh fye! and Learning too; prophane!
But_ Fletcher _hath done Miracles by wit,
And one Line of his may convert them yet.
Tempt them into the State of knowledge, and
Happinesse to read and understand.
The way is strow'd with_ Lawrell, _and ev'ry Muse
Brings Incense to our_ Fletcher: _whose Scenes infuse
Such noble kindlings from her pregnant fire,
As charmes her Criticke Poets in desire,
And who doth read him, that parts lesse indu'd,
Then with some heat of wit or Gratitude.
Some crowd to touch the Relique of his Bayes,
Some to cry up their owne wit in his praise,
And thinke they engage it by Comparatives,
When from himselfe, himselfe he best derives.
Let_ Shakespeare, Chapman, _and applauded_ Ben,
_Weare the Eternall merit of their Pen,
Here I am love-sicke: and were I to chuse,
A Mistris corrivall 'tis_ Fletcher's _Muse._
George Buck.
On Mr BEAUMONT.
(Written thirty years since, presently after his death.)
Beaumont _lyes here; and where now shall we have
A Muse like his to sigh upon his grave?
Ah! none to weepe this with a worthy teare,
But he that cannot,_ Beaumont, _that lies here.
Who now shall pay thy Tombe with such a Verse
As thou that Ladies didst, faire_ Rutlands _Herse?
A Monument that will then lasting be,
When all her Marble is more dust than she.
In thee all's lost: a sudden dearth and want
Hath seiz'd on Wit, good Epitaphs are scant;
We dare not write thy Elegie, whilst each feares
He nere shall match that coppy of thy teares.
Scarce in an Age a Poet, and yet he
Scarce lives the third part of his age to see,
But quickly taken off and only known,
Is in a minute shut as soone as showne._
_Why should weake Nature tire her selfe in vaine
In such a peice, to dash it straight againe?
Why should she take such worke beyond her skill,
Which when she cannot perfect, she must kill?
Alas, what is't to temper slime or mire?
But Nature's puzled when she workes in fire:
Great Braines (like brightest glasse) crack straight, while those
Of Stone or Wood hold out, and feare not blowes.
And wee their Ancient hoary heads can see
Whose Wit was never their mortality:_
Beaumont _dies young, so_ Sidney _did before,
There was not Poetry he could live to more,
He could not grow up higher, I scarce know
If th' art it selfe unto that pitch could grow,
Were't not in thee that hadst arriv'd the hight
Of all that wit could reach, or Nature might.
O when I read those excellent things of thine,
Such Strength, such sweetnesse coucht in every line,
Such life of Fancy, such high choise of braine,
Nought of the Vulgar wit or borrowed straine,
Such Passion, such expressions meet my eye,
Such Wit untainted with obscenity,
And these so unaffectedly exprest,
All in a language purely flowing drest,
And all so borne within thy selfe, thine owne,
So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon.
I grieve not now that old_ Menanders _veine
Is ruin'd to survive in thee againe;
Such in his time was he of the same peece,
The smooth, even naturall Wit, and Love of Greece.
Those few sententious fragments shew more worth,
Then all the Poets_ Athens _ere brought forth;
And I am sorry we have lost those houres
On them, whose quicknesse comes far short of ours,
And dwell not more on thee, whose every Page
May be a patterne for their Scene and Stage.
I will not yeeld thy Workes so meane a Prayse;
More pure, more chaste, more sainted then are Playes,
Nor with that dull supinenesse to be read,
To passe a fire, or laugh an houre in bed.
How doe the Muses suffer every where,
Taken in such mouthes censure, in such eares,
That twixt a whiffe, a Line or two rehearse,
And with their Rheume together spaule a Verse?
This all a Poems leisure after Play,
Drinke or Tabacco, it may keep the Day.
Whilst even their very idlenesse they thinke
Is lost in these, that lose their time in drinkt._
_Pity then dull we, we that better know,
Will a more serious houre on thee bestow,
Why should not_ Beaumont _in the Morning please,
As well as_ Plautus, Aristophanes?
_Who if my Pen may as my thoughts be free,
Were scurrill Wits and Buffons both to Thee;
Yet these our Learned of severest brow
Will deigne to looke on, and to note them too,
That will defie our owne, tis English stuffe,
And th' Author is not rotten long enough.
Alas what flegme are they, compared to thee,
In thy_ Philaster, _and_ Maids-Tragedy?
_Where's such an humour as thy_ Bessus? _pray
Let them put all their_ Thrasoes _in one Play,
He shall out-bid them; their conceit was poore,
All in a Circle of a Bawd or Whore;
A cozning dance, take the foole away,
And not a good jest extant in a Play.
Yet these are Wits, because they'r old, and now
Being Greeke and Latine, they are Learning too:
But those their owne Times were content t' allow
A thirsty fame, and thine is lowest now.
But thou shalt live, and when thy Name is growne
Six Ages older, shall be better knowne,
When th' art of_ Chaucers _standing in the Tombe,
Thou shalt not share, but take up all his roome._
Joh. Earle.
UPON Mr FLETCHERS
Incomparable Playes.
_The Poet lives; wonder not how or why_
Fletcher _revives, but that he er'e could dye:
Safe_ Mirth, _full_ Language, _flow in ev'ry Page,
At once he doth both_ heighten _and_ aswage;
_All Innocence and Wit, pleasant and cleare,
Nor_ Church _nor_ Lawes _were ever Libel'd here;
But faire deductions drawn from his great Braine,
Enough to conquer all that's_ False _or_ Vaine;
_He scatters Wit, and Sence so freely flings
That very_ Citizens _speake handsome things,
Teaching their_ Wives _such unaffected grace,
Their_ Looks _are now as handsome as their_ Face.
_Nor is this violent, he steals upon
The yeilding Soule untill the_ Phrensie's _gone_;
_His very_ Launcings _do the Patient_ please,
_As when good_ Musicke _cures a_ Mad Disease.
_Small Poets rifle Him, yet thinke it faire,
Because they rob a man that well can spare;
They feed upon him, owe him every bit,
Th'are all but_ Sub-excisemen _of his Wit._
J. M.
On the Workes of _Beaumont_ and _Fletcher_, now at length printed.
_Great paire of Authors, whom one equall Starre
Begot so like in_ Genius, _that you are
In Fame, as well as Writings, both so knit,
That no man knowes where to divide your wit,
Much lesse your praise; you, who had equall fire,
And did each other mutually inspire;
Whether one did contrive, the other write,
Or one framed the plot, the other did indite;
Whether one found the matter, th'other dresse,
Or the one disposed what th'other did expresse;
Where e're your parts betweene your selves lay, we,
In all things which you did but one thred see,
So evenly drawne out, so gently spunne,
That Art with Nature nere did smoother run.
Where shall I fixe my praise then? or what part
Of all your numerous Labours hath desert
More to be fam'd then other? shall I say,
I've met a lover so drawne in your Play,
So passionately written, so inflamed,
So jealously inraged, then gently tam'd,
That I in reading have the Person seene.
And your Pen hath part Stage and Actor been?
Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbeare
To clap, when I a Captain do meet there,
So lively in his owne vaine humour drest,
So braggingly, and like himself exprest,
That moderne Cowards, when they saw him plaid,
Saw, blusht, departed guilty, and betraid?
You wrote all parts right; whatsoe're the Stage
Had from you, was seene there as in the age,
And had their equall life: Vices which were
Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:
_They who possest a Box, and halfe Crowns spent
To learne Obscenenes, returned innocent,
And thankt you for this coznage, whose chaste Scene
Taught Loves so noble, so reformed, so cleane,
That they who brought foule fires, and thither came
To bargaine, went thence with a holy flame.
Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and Veyne
Held both to Tragick and to Comick straine;
Where e're you listed to be high and grave,
No Buskin shew'd more solem[n]e, no quill gave
Such feeling objects to draw teares from eyes,
Spectators sate part in your Tragedies.
And where you listed to be low, and free,
Mirth turn'd the whole house into Comedy;
So piercing (where you pleas'd) hitting a fault,
That humours from your pen issued all salt.
Nor were you thus in Works and Poems knit,
As to be but two halfes, and make one wit;
But as some things we see, have double cause,
And yet the effect it selfe from both whole drawes;
So though you were thus twisted and combind
As two bodies, to have but one faire minde
Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say
Both joyn'd, and both did wholly make the Play,
For that you could write singly, we may guesse
By the divided peeces which the Presse
Hath severally sent forth; nor were gone so
(Like some our Moderne Authors) made to go
On meerely by the helpe of the other, who
To purchase fame do come forth one of two;
Nor wrote you so, that ones part was to lick
The other into shape, nor did one stick
The others cold inventions with such wit,
As served like spice, to make them quick and fit;
Nor out of mutuall want, or emptinesse,
Did you conspire to go still twins to th' Presse:
But what thus joy tied you wrote, might have come forth
As good from each, and stored with the same worth
That thus united them, you did joyne sense,
In you 'twas League, in others impotence;
And the Presse which both thus amongst us sends,
Sends us one Poet in a faire of friends._
Jasper Maine.
Upon the report of the printing of the Dramaticall Poems of Master _John
Fletcher_, collected before, and now set forth in one Volume.
_Though when all_ Fletcher _writ, and the entire
Man was indulged unto that sacred fire,
His thoughts, and his thoughts dresse, appeared both such,
That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;
Who therefore wisely did submit each birth
To knowing_ Beaumont _e're it did come forth,
Working againe untill he said 'twas fit,
And made him the sobriety of his wit;
Though thus he call'd his Judge into his fame,
And for that aid allow'd him halfe the name,
'Tis knowne, that sometimes he did stand alone,
That both the Spunge and Pencill were his owne;
That himselfe judged himselfe, could singly do,
And was at last_ Beaumont _and_ Fletcher _too;
Else we had lost his_ Shepherdesse, _a piece
Even and smooth, spun from a finer fleece,
Where softnesse raignes, where passions passions greet,
Gentle and high, as floods of Balsam meet.
Where dressed in white expressions, sit bright Loves,
Drawne, like their fairest Queen, by milkie Doves;
A piece, which_ Johnson _in a rapture bid
Come up a glorifi'd Worke, and so it did.
Else had his Muse set with his friend; the Stage
Had missed those Poems, which yet take the Age;
The world had lost those rich exemplars, where
Art, Language, Wit, sit ruling in one Spheare,
Where the fresh matters soare above old Theames,
As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreames;
Where in a worthy scorne he dares refuse
All other Gods, and makes the thing his Muse;
Where he calls passions up, and layes them so,
As spirits, aw'd by him to come and go;
Where the free Author did what e're he would,
And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.
No vast uncivill bulke swells any Scene,
The strength's ingenious, a[n]d the vigour cleane;
None can prevent the Fancy, and see through
At the first opening; all stand wondring how
The thing will be untill it is; which thence
With fresh delight still cheats, still takes the sence;
The whole designe, the shadowes, the lights such
That none can say he shelves or hides too much:_
_Businesse growes up, ripened by just encrease,
And by as just degrees againe doth cease,
The heats and minutes of affaires are watcht,
And the nice points of time are met, and snatcht:
Nought later then it should, nought comes before,
Chymists, and Calculators doe erre more:
Sex, age, degree, affections, country, place,
The inward substance, and the outward face;
All kept precisely, all exactly fit,
What he would write, he was before he writ.
'Twixt_ Johnsons _grave, and_ Shakespeares _lighter sound
His muse so steer'd that something still was found,
Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his owne,
That 'twas his marke, and he was by it knowne.
Hence did he take true judgements, hence did strike,
All pallates some way, though not all alike:
The god of numbers might his numbers crowne,
And listning to them wish they were his owne.
Thus welcome forth, what ease, or wine, or wit
Durst yet produce, that is, what_ Fletcher _writ._
Another.
Fletcher, _though some call it thy fault, that wit
So overflow'd thy scenes, that ere 'twas fit
To come upon the Stage,_ Beaumont _was faine
To bid thee be more dull, that's write againe,
And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came
In a cleare, bright, full, but too large a flame;
And after all (finding thy Genius such)
That blunted, and allayed, 'twas yet too much;
Added his sober spunge, and did contract
Thy plenty to lesse wit to make't exact:
Yet we through his corrections could see
Much treasure in thy superfluity,
Which was so fil'd away, as when we doe
Cut Jewels, that that's lost is jewell too:
Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know
By losing makes the streame thence wealthy grow.
They who doe on thy worker severely sit,
And call thy store the over-births of wit,
Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when
Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen
Had no fault but abundance, which did lay
Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play;
And hence doe grant, that what they call excesse
Was to be reckon'd as thy happinesse,
From whom wit issued in a full spring-tide;
Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside._
_For that thou couldst thine owne free fancy binde
In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd
As to observe the rules of Art, which sway
In the contrivance of a true borne Play:
These workes proclaime which thou didst write retired
From_ Beaumont, _by none but thy selfe inspired;
Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,
Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit,
But like to_ Durers _Pencill, which first knew
The lawes of faces, and then faces drew:
Thou knowst the aire, the colour, and the place,
The simetry, which gives a Poem grace:
Parts are so fitted unto parts, as doe
Shew thou hadst wit, and Mathematicks too:
Knewst where by line to spare, where to dispence,
And didst beget just Comedies from thence:
Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,
That they (their owne Black-Friers) unacted breath._
Johnson _hath writ things lasting, and divine,
Yet his Love-Scenes,_ Fletcher, _compar'd to thine,
Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,
As heat with Ice, or warme fires mixt with Snow;
Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts,
Which burne, and raigne in noble Lovers hearts,
Hast cloath'd affections in such native tires,
And so describ'd them in their owne true fires;
Such moving sighes, suc[h] undissembled teares,
Such charmes of language, such hopes mixt with feares,
Such grants after denialls, such pursuits
After despaire, such amorous recruits,
That some who sate spectators have confest
Themselves transformed to what they saw exprest,
And felt such shafts steale through their captiv'd sence,
As made them rise Parts, and goe Lovers thence.
Nor was thy stile wholly compos'd of Groves,
Or the soft straines of Shepheards and their Loves;
When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth
In that kinde, came into the world all mirth,
All point, all edge, all sharpnesse; we did sit
Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,
Which flowed in such true salt, that we did doubt
In which Scene we laught most two shillings out._
Shakespeare _to thee was dull, whose best jest lyes
I'th Ladies questions, and the Fooles replyes;
Old fashioned wit, which walkt from town to town
In turn'd Hose, which our fathers call'd the Clown;
Whose wit our nice times would obsceannesse call,
And which made Bawdry passe for Comicall:_
_Nature was all his Art, thy veine was free
As his, but without his scurility;
From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplext,
But without labour cleane, chast, and unvext.
Thou wert not like some, our small Poets who
Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;
Whose wit is pilfring, and whose veine and wealth
In Poetry lyes meerely in their stealth;
Nor didst thou feele their drought, their pangs, their qualmes,
Their rack in writing, who doe write for almes,
Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,
But to their Benefactors dole aspires.
Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy selfe to praise
Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes
Didst write stale commendations to thy Booke,
Which we for_ Beaumonts _or_ Ben. Johnsons _tooke:
That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he
Can truly pay,_ Fletcher, _who writes like thee._
William Cartwright.
On Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT
(then newly dead.)
_He that hath such acutenesse, and such witt,
As would aske ten good heads to husband it;
He that can write so well that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:_
BEAUMONT _is dead, by whose sole death appeares,
Witt's a Disease consumes men in few yeares._
RICH. CORBET. D.D.
To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)
_How I doe love thee_ BEAUMONT, _and thy_ Muse,
_That unto me do'st such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there where most than praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee._
BEN: JOHNSON.
Upon Master FLETCHERS Incomparable Playes.
_Apollo sings, his harpe resounds; give roome,
For now behold the golden Pompe is come,
Thy Pompe of Playes which thousands come to see,
With admiration both of them and thee,
O Volume worthy leafe, by leafe and cover
To be with juice of Cedar washt all over;
Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent,
To raise an Act to full astonishment;
Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoone, and Maides to dye for love.
Love lyes a bleeding here,_ Evadne _there
Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where,
Here's a_ mad lover, _there that high designe
Of_ King and no King (_and the rare Plot thine_)
_So that when 'ere wee circumvolve our Eyes,
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varietyes,
Ravish our spirits, that entranc't we see
None writes lov's passion in the world, like Thee._