before did by a secret charme
  The wildest Heart subdue, the coldest warme,
  And lend the Lady's eyes a power more bright,
  Dispensing thus to either, Heat and Light.
    He to a Sympathie those soules betrai'd
  Whom Love or Beauty never could perswade;
  And in each mov'd spectatour could beget
  A reall passion by a Counterfeit:
  When first Bellario bled, what Lady there
  Did not for every drop let fall a teare?
  And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
  But seem'd to weare the same sad livery;
  By him inspired the feigned Lucina drew
  More streams of melting sorrow then the true;
  But then the Scornfull Lady did beguile
  Their easie griefs, and teach them all to smile.
    Thus he Affections could, or raise or lay;
  Love, Griefe and Mirth thus did his Charmes obey:
  He Nature taught her passions to out-doe,
  How to refine the old, and create new;
  Which such a happy likenesse seem'd to beare,
  As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
    Yet All had Nothing bin, obscurely kept
  In the same Urne wherein his Dust hath slept,
  Nor had he ris' the Delphick wreath to claime,
  Had not the dying sceane expired his Name;
  Dispaire our joy hath doubled, he is come,
  Thrice welcome by this Post-liminium.
  His losse preserved him; They that silenc'd Wit,
  Are now the Authours to Eternize it;
    Thus Poets are in spight of Fate revived,
    And Playes by Intermission longer liv'd.

THO. STANLEY.

On the Edition of Mr Francis Beaumonts, and Mr John Fletchers PLAYES never printed before.

  I Am amaz'd; and this same Extacye
  Is both my Glory and Apology.
  Sober Joyes are dull Passions; they must beare
  Proportion to the Subject: if so; where
  Beaumont and Fletcher shall vouchsafe to be
  That Subject; That Joy must be Extacye.
  Fury is the Complexion of great Wits;
  The Fooles Distemper: Hee, thats mad by fits,
  Is wise so too. It is the Poets Muse;
  The Prophets God: the Fooles, and my excuse.
  For (in Me) nothing lesse then Fletchers Name
  Could have begot, or justify'd this flame.
  Beaumont }
  Fletcher } Return'd? methinks it should not be.
  No, not in's Works: Playes are as dead as He.
  The Palate of this age gusts nothing High;
  That has not Custard in't or Bawdery.
  Folly and Madnesse fill the Stage: The Scæne
  Is Athens; where, the Guilty, and the Meane,
  The Foole 'scapes well enough; Learned and Great,
  Suffer an Ostracisme; stand Exulate.

  Mankinde is fall'n againe, shrunke a degree,
  A step below his very Apostacye.
  Nature her Selfe is out of Tune; and Sicke
  Of Tumult and Disorder, Lunatique.
  Yet what World would not cheerfully endure
  The Torture, or Disease, t' enjoy the Cure?

  This Booke's the Balsame, and the Hellebore,
  Must preserve bleeding Nature, and restore
  Our Crazy Stupor to a just quick Sence
  Both of Ingratitude, and Providence.
  That teaches us (at Once) to feele, and know,
  Two deep Points: what we want, and what we owe.
  Yet Great Goods have their Ills: Should we transmit
  To Future Times, the Pow'r of Love and Wit,
  In this Example: would they not combine
  To make Our Imperfections Their Designe?
  They'd study our Corruptions; and take more
  Care to be Ill, then to be Good, before.
  For _nothing but so great Infirmity,
  Could make Them worthy of such Remedy.

  Have you not scene the Suns almighty Ray
  Rescue th' affrighted World_, and redeeme Day
  From blacke despaire: how his victorious Beame
  Scatters the Storme, and drownes the petty flame
  Of Lightning, in the glory of his eye:
  How full of pow'r, how full of Majesty?
  When to us Mortals, nothing else was knowne,
  But the sad doubt, whether to burne, or drowne.

  Choler, and Phlegme, Heat, and dull Ignorance,
  Have cast the people into such a Trance,
  That feares and danger seeme Great equally,
  And no dispute left now, but how to dye.
  Just in this nicke, Fletcher sets the world cleare
  Of all disorder and reformes us here.

  The formall Youth, that knew no other Grace,
  Or Value, but his Title, and his Lace,
  Glasses himselfe: and in this faithfull Mirrour,
  Views, disaproves, reformes, repents his Errour.

  The Credulous, bright Girle, that beleeves all
  Language, (in Othes) if Good, Canonicall,
  Is fortifi'd, and taught, here, to beware
  Of ev'ry specious bayte, of ev'ry snare
  Save one: and that same Caution takes her more,
  Then all the flattery she felt before.
  She finds her Boxes, and her Thoughts betray'd
  By the Corruption of the Chambermaide:
  Then throwes her Washes and dissemblings By;
  And Vowes nothing but Ingenuity.

The severe States-man quits his sullen forme Of Gravity and bus'nesse; The Luke-warme Religious his Neutrality; The hot Braine-sicke Illuminate his zeale; The Sot Stupidity; The Souldier his Arreares; The Court its Confidence; The Plebs their feares; Gallants their Apishnesse and Perjurie, Women their Pleasure and Inconstancie; Poets their Wine; the Usurer his Pelfe; The World its Vanity; and I my Selfe.

Roger L'Estrange.

COMMENDATORY

On the Dramatick Poems of Mr JOHN FLETCHER.

  Wonder! who's here? Fletcher, long buried
  Reviv'd? Tis he! hee's risen from the Dead.
  His winding sheet put off, walks above ground,
  Shakes off his Fetters, and is better bound.
  And may he not, if rightly understood,
  Prove Playes are lawfull? he hath made