_In Scænes where she inflames the frozen soule,
While_ Vice _(her paint washt off) appeares so foule;
She must this_ Blessed Isle _and Europe leave,
And some new_ Quadrant _of the_ Globe _deceive:
Or hide her Blushes on the_ Affrike _shore
Like_ Marius, _but ne're rise to_ triumph _more;
That_ honour _is resign'd to_ Fletchers _fame;
Adde to his Trophies, that a_ Poets _name
(Late growne as odious to our_ Moderne _states
As that of_ King _to Rome) he vindicates
From black aspertions, cast upon't by those
Which only are inspir'd to lye in prose.

_And_, By the Court of Muses be't decreed,
_What graces spring from Poesy's richer seed,
When we name_ Fletcher _shall be so proclaimed,
As all that's_ Royall _is when_ Cæsar's _nam'd.

ROBERT STAPYLTON Knight.


To the memory of my most honoured kinsman, Mr. _Francis Beaumont_.

_I'le not pronounce how strong and cleane thou writes,
Nor by what new hard Rules thou took'st thy Flights,
Nor how much_ Greek _and_ Latin _some refine
Before they can make up six words of thine,
But this I'le say, thou strik'st our sense so deep,
At once thou mak'st us Blush, Rejoyce, and Weep.
Great Father_ Johnson _bow'd himselfe when hee