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._

ROB. HERRICK.

On the happy Collection of Master _FLETCHER'S_ Works, never before
PRINTED.

FLETCHER _arise, Usurpers share thy Bayes,
They_ Canton _thy vast Wit to build small_ Playes:
_He comes! his_ Volume _breaks through clowds and dust,
Downe, little Witts, Ye must refund, Ye must._
_Nor comes he private, here's great_ BEAUMONT _too,
How could one single World encompasse Two?
For these Co-heirs had equall power to teach
All that all Witts both can and cannot reach._
Shakespear _was early up, and went so drest
As for those_ dawning _houres he knew was best;
But when the Sun shone forth,_ You Two _thought fit
To weare just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.
Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must looke for New,
Manners and Scenes may alter, but not_ You;
_For Yours are not meere_ Humours, _gilded straines;
The Fashion lost, Your massy_ Sense _remaines.
Some thinke Your Witts of two Complexions fram'd,
That One the_ Sock, _th'Other the_ Bus