th diseased our Wits;
Or constr'e English to untye a knot.
Hid in a line, farre subtler then the Plot.
With Thee the Page may close his Ladies eyes,
And yet with thee the serious Student Rise:
The Eye at sev'rall angles darting rayes,
Makes, and then sees, new Colours; so thy Playes
To ev'ry understanding still appeare,
As if thou only meant'st to take that Eare;
The Phrase so terse and free of a just Poise,
Where ev'ry word ha's weight and yet no Noise,
The matter too so nobly fit, no lesse
Then such as onely could deserve thy Dresse:
Witnesse thy Comedies, Pieces of such worth,
All Ages shall still like, but ne're bring forth.
Other in season last scarce so long time,
As cost the Poet but to make the Rime:
Where, if a Lord a new way do's but spit,
Or change his shrugge this antiquates the Wit.
That thou didst live before, nothing would tell
Posterity, could they but write so well.
Thy Cath'lick Fancy will acceptance finde,
Not whilst an humours living, but Man-kinde.
Thou, like thy Writings, Innocent and Cleane,
Ne're practis'd a new Vice, to make one Scaene,
None of thy Inke had gall, and Ladies can,
Securely heare thee sport without a Fanne.
But when Thy Tragicke Muse would please to rise
In Majestie, and call Tribute from our Eyes;
Like Scenes, we shifted Passions, and that so,
Who only came to see, turned Actors too.
How didst thou sway the Theatre! make us feele
The Players wounds were true, and their swords, steele!
Nay, stranger yet, how often did I knows
When the Spectators ran to save the blow?
Frozen with griefe we could not stir away
Untill the Epilogue told us 'twas a Play.
What shall I doe? all Commendations end,
In saying only thou wert BEAUMONTS Friend?
Give me thy spirit quickely, for I swell,
And like a raveing Prophetesse cannot tell
How to receive thy Genius in my breast:
Oh! I must sleepe, and then I'le sing the rest.

T. Palmer of Ch. Ch. Oxon.

Upon the unparalelld Playes written by those Renowned Twinnes of Poetry
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.

What's here? another Library of prayse,
Met in a Troupe t'advance contemned Playes
And bring exploded Witt againe in fashion?
I can't but wonder at this Reformation,
_My skipping soule surfets with so much good,
To see my hopes into_ fruition _budd.
A happy_ Chimistry! _blest viper_, joy!
_Tha