ht, 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 af