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Richard Lovelace - On The Best, Last, And Only Remaning Comedy Of Mr. Fletcher
Work rating: Low

  I`m un-ore-clowded, too! free from the mist!
The blind and late Heaven`s-eyes great Occulist,
Obscured with the false fires of his sceme,
Not half those souls are lightned by this theme.

  Unhappy murmurers, that still repine
(After th` Eclipse our Sun doth brighter shine),
Recant your false grief, and your true joys know;
Your blisse is endlesse, as you fear`d your woe!
What fort`nate flood is this! what storm of wit!
Oh, who would live, and not ore-whelm`d in it?
No more a fatal Deluge shall be hurl`d:
This inundation hath sav`d the world.
Once more the mighty Fletcher doth arise,
Roab`d in a vest studded with stars and eyes
Of all his former glories; his last worth
Imbroiderd with what yet light ere brought forth.
See! in this glad farewel he doth appear
Stuck with the Constellations of his Sphere,
Fearing we numb`d fear`d no flagration,
Hath curl`d all his fires in this one ONE:
Which (as they guard his hallowed chast urn)
The dull aproaching hereticks do burn.

  Fletcher at his adieu carouses thus
To the luxurious ingenious,
As Cleopatra did of old out-vie,
Th` un-numb`red dishes of her Anthony,
When (he at th` empty board a wonderer)
Smiling she calls for pearl and vinegar,
First pledges him in`s BREATH, then at one draught
Swallows THREE KINGDOMS of To HIS BEST THOUGHT.

  Hear, oh ye valiant writers, and subscribe;
(His force set by) y`are conquer`d by this bribe.
Though you hold out your selves, he doth commit
In this a sacred treason in your wit;
Although in poems desperately stout,
Give up: this overture must buy you out.

  Thus with some prodigal us`rer `t doth fare,
That keeps his gold still vayl`d, his steel-breast bare;
That doth exceed his coffers all but`s eye,
And his eyes` idol the wing`d Deity:
That cannot lock his mines with half the art
As some rich beauty doth his wretched heart;
Wild at his real poverty, and so wise
To win her, turns himself into a prise.
First startles her with th` emerald Mad-Lover
The ruby Arcas, least she should recover
Her dazled thought, a Diamond he throws,
Splendid in all the bright Aspatia`s woes;
Then to sum up the abstract of his store,
He flings a rope of Pearl of forty more.
Ah, see! the stagg`ring virtue faints! which he
Beholding, darts his Wealths Epitome;
And now, to consummate her wished fall,
Shows this one Carbuncle, that darkens all.
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