On Mr. Fletcher's Works

Fletcher, whose fame no age can ever waste,(Envy of ours, and glory of the last,)Is now alive again; and with his nameHis sacred ashes wak'd into a flameSuch as before could[8:2] by a secret charmThe wildest heart subdue, the coldest warm,And lend the ladies' eyes a power more bright,Dispensing thus, to either, heat and light.He to a sympathy those souls betray'dWhom love or beauty never could persuade;And in each mov'd spectator did[8:3] begetA real passion by a counterfeit.When first Bellario bled, what lady thereDid not for every drop let fall a tear?And when Aspasia wept, not any eyeBut seem'd to wear the same sad livery;By him inspir'd, the feign'd Lucina drewMore streams of melting sorrow than the true;But then The Scornful Lady did[8:4] beguileTheir easy griefs, and teach them all to smile.Thus he affections could or raise or lay;Love, grief, and mirth thus did his charms obey:He Nature taught her passions to out-do,How to refine the old, and create new;Which such a happy likeness seem'd to bear,As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.Yet all had nothing been, obscurely keptIn the same urn wherein his dust hath slept;Nor had he risen[8:5] the Delphic wreath to claim,Had with[8:6] the dying scene expir'd his name.O the indulgent justice of this age,To grant the press what it denies the stage!Despair our joy hath doubled: he is comeTwice welcome by this post liminium.His loss preserv'd him; they that silenc'd witAre now the authors to eternize it.Thus poets are in spite of Fate reviv'd,And plays, by intermission, longer liv'd.