_Wit_.
_Thus, two great_ Consul-_Poets all things swayd,
Till all was_ English _Borne or_ English _Made:_
Miter _and_ Coyfe _here into One Piece spun_,
BEAUMONT _a_ Judge's, _This a_ Prelat's _sonne.
What Strange Production is at last displaid,
(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aide)
Behold, two_ Masculines _espous'd each other_,
Wit _and the World were born without a_ Mother.

J. BERKENHEAD.

To the memorie of Master _FLETCHER._

_There's nothing gained by being witty: Fame
Gathers but winde to blather up a name_.
Orpheus _must leave his lyre, or if it be
In heav'n, 'tis there a signe, no harmony,
And stones, that follow'd him, may now become
Now stones againe, and serve him for his Tomb.
The Theban_ Linus, _that was ably skil'd
In Muse and Musicke, was by_ Phoebus _kill'd,
Though_ Phoebus _did beget him: sure his Art
Had merited his balsame, not his dart.
But here_ Apollo's _jealousie is seene,
The god of Physicks troubled with the spleene;
Like timerous Kings he puts a period
To high grown parts lest he should be no God.
Hence those great Master-wits of Greece that gave
Life to the world, could not avoid a grave.
Hence the inspired Prophets of old_ Rome
_Too great for earth fled to_ Elizium.
_But the same Ostracisme benighted one,
To whom all these were but illusion;
It tooke our_ FLETCHER _hence_, Fletcher, _whose wit
Was not an accident to th' soule, but It;
Onely diffused. (Thus wee the same Sun call,
Moving it'h Sphaere, and shining on a wall.)
Wit, so high placed at first, it could not climbe,
Wit, that ne're grew, but only show'd by time.
No fier-worke of sacke, no seldome show'n
Poeticke rage, but still in motion:
And with far more then Sphericke excellence
It mov'd, for 'twas its owns Intelligence.
And yet so obvious to sense, so plaine,
You'd scarcely thinke't allyd unto the braine:_
_So sweete, it gained more ground upon the Stage
Then_ Johnson _with his selfe-admiring rage
Ere lost: and then so naturally it fell,
That fooles would think, that they could doe as well.
This is our losse: yet spight of_ Phoebus, _we
Will keepe our_ FLETCHER, _for his wit is He_.

EDW. POWELL.

Upon the ever to be admired Mr. JOHN FLETCHER and His PLAYES.

_What's all this prepar