t through thy mothers bowels gnawst thy way!
Witts flock in sholes, and clubb to re-erect
In spight of_ Ignorance _the Architect
Of Occidentall_ Poesye; _and turne
Godds, to recall_ witts _ashes from their urne.
Like huge_ Collosses _they've together mett
Their shoulders, to support a world of Witt.
The tale of_ Atlas (_though of truth it misse_)
_We plainely read_ Mythologiz'd _in this_;
Orpheus _and_ Amphion _whose undying stories
Made_ Athens _famous, are but_ Allegories.
_Tis Poetry has pow'r to civilize
Men, worse then stones, more blockish then the Trees,
I cannot chuse but thinke (now things so fall)
That witt is past its_ Climactericall;
_And though the_ Muses _have beene dead and gone
I know they'll finde a_ Resurrection.
_Tis vaine to prayse; they're to themselves a glory,
And silence is our sweetest_ Oratory.
_For he that names but_ FLETCHER _must needs be
Found guilty of a loud_ hyperbole.
_His fancy so transcendently aspires,
He showes himselfe a witt, who but admires.
Here are no volumes stuft with cheverle sence,
The very_ Anagrams _of Eloquence,
Nor long-long-winded sentences that be,
Being rightly spelld, but Witts_ Stenographie.
_Nor words, as voyd of Reason, as of Rithme,
Only cesura'd to spin out the time.
But heer's a_ Magazine _of purest sence
Cloathed in the newest Garbe of Eloquence.
Scenes that are quick and sprightly, in whose veines
Bubbles the quintessence of sweet-high straines.
Lines like their_ Authours, _and each word of it
Does say twas writ b' a_ Gemini _of Witt.
How happie is our age! how blest our men!
When such rare soules live themselves o're agen.
We erre, that thinke a Poet dyes; for this,
Shewes that tis but a_ Metempsychosis.
BEAUMONT _and_ FLETCHER _here at last we see
Above the reach of dull mortalitie,
Or pow'r of fate: thus the proverbe hitts
(Thats so much crost) These men live by their witts_.

ALEX. BROME.

On the Death and workes of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

_My name, so far from great, that tis not knowne,
Can lend no praise but what thou'dst blush to own;
And no rude hand, or feeble wit should dare
To vex thy Shrine with an unlearned teare.
I'de have a State of Wit convoked, which hath
A power to take up on common Faith;
That when the stocke of the whole Kingdome's spent
In but preparati