upon the double Cliffe (Were it as high as monstrous Tennariffe) Of farre-renown’d Parnassus he will get, And there (t’ amaze the World) confirme his state:  When our admired Fletcher vaunts not ought, And slighted everything he writ as naught:  While all our English wondring world (in’s cause) Made this great City eccho with applause.  Read him therefore all that can read, and those That cannot learne, if y’ are not Learnings foes, And wilfully resolved to refuse The gentle Raptures of this happy Muse.  From thy great constellation (noble Soule) Looke on this Kingdome, suffer not the whole Spirit of Poesie retire to Heaven, But make us entertains what thou hast given.  Earthquakes and Thunder Diapasons make The Seas vast roare, and irresistlesse shake Of horrid winds, a sympathy compose; So in these things there’s musicke in the close:  And though they seem great Discords in our eares, They are not so to them above the Spheares.  Granting these Musicke, how much sweeter’s that Mnemosyne’s daughter’s voyces doe create?  Since Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Ayre consent To make an Harmony (the Instrument, Their man agreeing selves) shall we refuse The Musicke which the Deities doe use? Troys ravisht Ganymed doth sing to Jove, And Phoebus selfe playes on his Lyre above.  The Cretan Gods, or glorious men, who will Imitate right, must wonder at thy skill, Best Poet of thy times, or he will prove As mad as thy brave Memnon was with love.

ASTON COKAINE, Baronet.

Upon the Works of BEAUMONT,
and FLETCHER.

How Angels (cloyster’d in our humane Cells) Maintaine their parley, Beaumont-Fletcher tels; Whose strange unimitable Intercourse Transcends all Rules, and flyes beyond the force Of the most forward soules; all must submit Untill they reach these Mysteries of Wit.  The Intellectuall Language here’s exprest, Admir’d in better times, and dares the Test Of Ours; for from Wit, Sweetnesse, Mirth, and Sence, This Volume springs a new true Quintessence.

JO.  PETTUS, Knight.

On the Works of the most excellent Dramatick Poet, Mr. John F[l]etcher, never before Printed.

Haile_ Fletcher, welcome to the worlds great Stage; For our two houres, we have thee here an age In thy whole Works, and may th’ Impression call The Pretor that presents thy Playes to all:  Both to the People, and the Lords that sway That Herd, and Ladies whom those Lords obey.  And what’s the Loadstone can such guests invite But moves on two Poles, Profit and Delight, Which will be soon, as on the Rack, confest When every one is tickled with a jest:  And that pure Fletcher, able to subdue A Melancholy more then Burton knew.  And though upon the by, to his designes The Native may learne English from his lines, And th’ Alien