Whilst ev'n their very idleness, they think,
Is lost in these, that lose their time in drink.
Pity their dullness; we that better know,
Will a more serious hour on thee bestow.9
Why should not Beaumont in the morning please,
As well as Plautus, Aristophanes ?

Who, if my pen may as my thoughts be free,
Were scurril wits and buffoons both to thee;
Yet these our learned of severest brow
Will deign to look on, and to note them too,
That will defy our own; 'tis English stuff,
And th' author is not rotten long enough.
Alas,,what phlegm are they, compar'd to thee,
In thy Philaster, and Maid's Tragedy?
Where's such an humour as thy Bessus, pray?
Let them put all their Thrasoes in one play,
He shall out-bid them; their conceit was poor,'
All in a circle of a bawd or whore,

A coz'ning Davus; " take the fool away,
And not a good jest extant in a play.

Yet these are wits, because they're old, and now,
Being Greek and Latin, they are learning too:
But those their own times were content t' allow
A thriftier fame,12 and thine is lowest now.
But thou shalt live, and, when thy name is grown
Six ages older, shalt be better known;
When thou'rt of Chaucer's standing in the tomb,
Thou shalt not share, but take up all, his room.*

JOH. EARLE."3

Оп

The meaning seems to be, "They have no leisure for poetry, till they have done with gaming, drinking, and smoaking; these having had their time, poetry may command the day."

9 Pity then dull we, we that better know,

Will a more serious hour on thee bestow.] There is too much inconsistency in this sentence to suppose it genuine. He ironically calls himself and friends dull, and literally asserts their superior understanding in the same sentence. Beside, Pity then we will bestow, &c. does not seem English. I change but an n to an m, and read, Pity them dull; We, we that,

&c.

The text is from Beaumont's Poems.

SEWARD.

10 Their conceit was poor, &c.] Mr. Earle's reflections on Terence are in part at least very unjust. There is perhaps too much sameness in his plots; but his old men and young, his servants, his parasites, &c. are each a distinct character from all the rest, and preserved throughout each play with infinite spirit and judgment. Beside which, the elegant diction and fine sentiments which every where abound in him are patterns to the best comic writers; and which Beaumont and Fletcher strive to excel him in by adding sublimity of poetry justness of sentiment; well knowing that jests and droliery are only the lowest degree of comic excellence.

SEWARD.

to

"A coz'ning dance.] Corrected by Theobald, who says, "Davus is the name of a subtle juggling servant in Terence's comedy called the Fair Andrian.”

12 A thirsty fame.] To make thirsty signify poor or scanty may be admitted; but as the smallest change gives a more natural word, thrifty seems the original.

The text from Beaumont's Poems.

*This copy varies considerably from that printed with Beaumont's Poems.

SEWARD.

13 Joh. Earle. Mr Earle was young when he wrote this, and there are indisputable marks of a bright poetic genius, which had probably been greatly inspired by an intimacy with Beaumont. He was in high repute as a preacher and a scholar in King Charles the First's reign; and seems to have been a true patriot; for it is probable that he opposed the court in the beginning of the troubles, as he was elected one of the Assembly of Divines; but he refused to act with them, and adhered to the king in his lowest state, and for it was

deprived

VI.

On Mr. FRANCIS BEAUMONT, (then newly dead).

HE that hath such acuteness, and such wit,
As would ask ten good heads to husband it :
He, that can write so well, that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:
Beaumont is dead, by whose sole death appears,
Wit's a disease consumes men in few years.

VII.

RICH. CORBET, 14 D. D.

On the happy Collection of Mr. FLETCHER's Works, never before printed.
FLETCHER, arise! usurpers share thy bays,
They canton thy vast wit to build small plays:

He comes! his volume breaks through clouds and dust;
Down, little wits! ye must refund, ye must.

Nor comes he private; here's great Beaumont too:
How could one single world encompass two?
For these co-heirs had equal power to teach
All that all wits both can, and cannot, reach.
Shakespeare was early up, and went so drest
As for those dawning hours he knew was best;
But, when the sun shone forth, you two thought fit
To wear just robes, and leave off trunk-hose wit.
Now, now, 'twas perfect; none must look for new,
Manners and scenes may alter, but not you;
For yours are not mere humours, gilded strains;
The fashion lost, your massy sense remains.

Some think your wits of two complexions fram'd,
That one the sock, th' other the buskin, claim'd;
That should the stage embattle all its force,
Fletcher would lead the foot, Beaumont the horse.
But, you were both for both; not semy-wits,
Each piece is wholly two, yet never splits:
Ye're not two faculties, and one soul still,
He th' understanding, thou the quick free will;
Not as two voices in one song embrace,
Fletcher's keen treble, and deep Beaumont's base,1

15

Two,

deprived of the chancellorship of Salisbury, and all his other preferments. After the restoration, he was made, first Dean of Westminster, then Bishop of Worcester, and afterwards of Salisbury. Mr Wood gives a character of him, that extremely resembles that of the excellent Dr. Hough, the late Bishop of Worcester; the sum of it is, that he joined the politeness of a courtier to the sanctity, goodness, and charity of an apostle. SEWARD.

14 Richard Corbet, first Student, then Dean of Christ-Church, afterwards Bishop of Oxford, and from thence translated to Norwich; in his youth was eminent for wit and poetry, of which this is a specimen, and a good testimony of Beaumont's having a luxuriant wit as well as Fletcher,

15

a wit

That would ask ten good heads to husband it.

But, as two voices in one song embrace,
(Fletcher's keen treble, and deep Beaumont's base)

SEWARD.

Two, full, congenial souls.] Here Berkenhead is speaking of the doubtful opinions relating to the share which Beaumont and Fletcher had in these plays: he tells you, that the general opinion was, that Beaumont was a grave tragic writer, Fletcher most excellent in comedy. This he contradicts; but how, why, they did not differ as a general of horse does from a general of foot, nor as the sock does from the buskin, nor as the will from the under

standing,

Two, full, congenial souls; still both prevail'd;
His muse and thine were quarter'd, not impal'd;1
Both brought you ingots, both toil'd at the mint,
Beat, melted, sifted, 'till no dross stuck in't;
Then in each other's scales weigh'd every grain,
Then smooth'd and burnish'd, then weigh'd all again;
Stampt both your names upon't at one bold hit,
Then, then 'twas coin, as well as bullion-wit.
Thus twins: But as when Fate one eye deprives,
That other strives to double, which survives,
So Beaumont died; yet left in legacy

His rules and standard wit (Fletcher) to thee.
Still the same planet, though not fill'd so soon,
A two-horn'd crescent then, now one full-moon.
Joint love before, now honour, doth provoke;
So th' old twin giants forcing a huge oak,
One slip'd his footing, th' other sees him fall,
Grasp'd the whole tree, and single held up all.
Imperial Fletcher! here begins thy reign;

Scenes flow like sun-beams from thy glorious brain;
Thy swift-dispatching soul no more doth stay,
Than he that built two cities in one day;
Ever brim-full, and sometimes running o'er,

To feed poor languid wits that wait at door;

Who creep and creep, yet ne'er above-ground stood;
(For creatures have most feet, which have least blood)
But thou art still that bird of paradise,
Which hath no feet, and ever nobly flies:
Rich, lusty sense, such as the Poet ought;
For poems, if not excellent, are naught;
Low wit in scenes in state a peasant goes;
If mean and flat, let it foot yeoman-prose,
That such may spell, as are not readers grown;
To whom he, that writes wit, shews he hath none.
Brave Shakespeare flow'd, yet had his ebbings too,
Often above himself, sometimes below;

Thou always best; if aught seem'd to decline,
'Twas the unjudging rout's mistake, not thine:

standing, but were two full congenial souls, and differed only as the base and treble do in the same song. Why, if this is the true reading, he confirms in these lines what he had contradicted in all the foregoing similes, for base and treble have much the same difference between them as horse and foot in an army, or the wit and understanding in the soul. To make the writer consistent with himself, the true reading seems to be not instead of but:

16 His muse and thine were quarter'd, not impal'd;] I know I am going out of my depth, in attempting a criticism on terms in heraldry. But my books tell me, that impating is when the arms of the man and wife are placed on the same escutcheon, the one on the right and the other on the left; which is a proper emblem of the matrimonial union; and might seemingly be as well applied to the marriage of Beaumont and Fletcher's wit, as the word quartering can, which the same Berkenhead speaks of at the latter end of this poem:

What strange production is at last display'd,
Got by two fathers without female aid!

But I shall attempt no change in a science where I am ignorance itself.

SEWARD.

Thus

Thus thy fair Shepherdess, which the bold heap
(False to themselves and thee) did prize so cheap,
Was found (when understood) fit to be crown'd;
At worst 'twas worth two hundred thousand pound.
Some blast thy works, lest we should track their walk,
Where they steal all those few good things they talk;
Wit-burglary must chide those it feeds on,

For plunder'd folks ought to be rail'd upon;
But (as stoln goods go off at half their worth)
Thy strong sense palls, when they purloin it forth.
When didst thou borrow? where's the man e'er read
Aught begg'd by thee from those alive or dead?
Or from dry goddesses? as some who, when

They stuff their page with gods, write worse than men;
Thou wast thine own muse, and hadst such vast odds,
Thou out-writ'st him whose verse made all those gods:
Surpassing those our dwarfish age up-rears,

As much as Greeks, or Latins, thee in years:
Thy ocean fancy knew nor banks nor damms;
We ebb down dry to pebble-anagrams;
Dead and insipid, all despairing sit;

Lost to behold this great relapse of wit:

What strength remains, is like that (wild and fierce)
'Till Jonson made good poets and right verse.

Such boist'rous trifles thy muse would not brook,
Save when she'd shew how scurvily they look ;
No savage metaphors (things rudely great)
Thou dost display, not butcher a conceit;

Thy nerves have beauty, which invades and charms;
Looks like a princess harness'd in bright arms.
Nor art thou loud and cloudy; those, that do
Thunder so much, do't without lightning too;
Tearing themselves, and almost split their brain
To render harsh what thou speak'st free and clean;
Such gloomy sense may pass for high and proud,
But true-born wit still flies above the cloud;
Thou knew'st 'twas impotence, what they call height;'
Who blusters strong i'th' dark, but creeps i'th' light.
And as thy thoughts were clear, so, innocent;

Thy fancy gave no unswept language vent;
Slander'st not laws, prophan'st no holy page
(As if thy father's crosier aw'd the stage);

High crimes were still arraign'd; though they made shift
To prosper out four acts, were plagu'd i'th' fifth:
All's safe, and wise; no stiff affected scene,

Nor swoln, nor flat, a true full natural vein;

Thy sense (like well-drest ladies) cloath'd as skinn'd,
Not all unlac'd, nor city-starch'd and pinn'd?

Thou hadst no sloth, no rage, no sullen fit,

But strength and mirth; Fletcher's a sanguine wit.
Thus, two great consul-poets all things sway'd,
'Till all was English born or English made:
Mitre and coif here into one piece spun,
Beaumont's a judge's, this a prelate's son.
What strange production is at last display'd,
Got by two fathers, without female aid!

Behold,

Behold, two masculines espous'd each other;

Wit and the world were born without a mother. J. BERKENHEAD.

VIII.

On the Works of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, now at length printed.

GREAT pair of Authors, whom one equal star
Begot so like in genius, that you are

In fame, as well as writings, both so knit,
That no man knows where to divide your wit,
Much less your praise: you, who had equal fire
And did each other mutually inspire;

Whether one did contrive, the other write,
Or one fram'd the plot, the other did indite;
Whether one found the matter, th' other dress,
Or th' one dispos'd what th' other did express :
Where-e'er your parts between yourselves lay, we
In all things, which you did, but one thread see;
So evenly drawn out, so gently spun,

That Art with Nature ne'er did smoother run.
Where shall I fix my praise then? or what part
Of all your numerous labours hath desert
More to be fam'd than other? Shall I say,
I've met a lover so drawn in your play,
So passionately written, so inflam'd,
So jealously enrag'd, then gently tam'd,
That I in reading have the person seen,
And your pen hath part stage and actor been?
Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbear
To clap, when I a* captain do meet there;
So lively in his own vain humour drest,
So braggingly, and like himself exprest,

That modern cowards, when they saw him play'd,
Saw, blush'd, departed, guilty and betray'd?
You wrote all parts right; whatsoe'er the stage
Had from you, was seen there as in the age,
And had their equal life: vices which were
Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:
They who possest a box and half-crown spent
To learn obsceneness, return'd innocent,

And thank'd you for this coz'nage, whose chaste scene
Taught loves so noble, so reform'd, so clean,

That they, who brought foul fires, and thither came
To bargain, went thence with a holy flame.

Be't to your praise too, that's your stock and vein
Held both to tragic and to comic strain;

17 J. Berkinhead.] Berkinhead was first amanuensis to bishop Laud, and fellow of AllSouls. He was author of the Mercurius Aulicus, a very loyal paper in the time of the rebellion. He was persecuted much in Cromwell's days, and lived by his wits; afterwards he had good places under King Charles the Second, was member of parliament, and knighted.

SEWARD.

your stock and vein

Held both to tragic and to comic strain.] i. e. Your stock of understanding and knowledge, and your vein of wit and humour, are equally excellent in tragedy and comedy.

SEWARD.

Where