The book is the Literary collection of The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher. 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?.
