Francis Beaumont[1584-1616]On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
¶MORTALITY, behold and fearWhat a change of flesh is here!Think how many royal bonesSleep within these heaps of stones;Here they lie, had realms and lands,Who now want strength to stir their hands,Where from their pulpits seal'd with dustThey preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'Here's an acre sown indeedWith the richest royallest seedThat the earth did e'er suck inSince the first man died for sin:Here the bones of birth have cried' Though gods they were, as men they died!'Here are sands, ignoble things,Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:Here's a world of pomp and stateBuried in dust, once dead by fate.
Master Francis Beaumont's Letter toBen Jonson
¶Written before he and Master Fletcher came to LondonTHE sun (which doth the greatest comfort bringTo absent friends, because the self-same thingThey know they see, however absent) isHere our best haymaker (forgive me this;It is our country's style): in this warm shineI lie, and dream of your full Mermaid Wine .
Francis Beaumont
¶O , we have Winter mixed with claret lees,Drink apt to bring in drier heresiesThan beer, good only for the sonnet's strain,With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain;So mixed, that, given to the thirstiest one,' T will not prove alms, unless he have the stone:I think with one draught man's invention fades,Two cups had quite spoiled Homer's Iliads!'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit,Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet.Filled with such moisture, in most grievous qualms,Did Robert Wisdom write his singing Psalms;And so must I do this: and yet I thinkIt is our potion sent us down to drink,By special Providence, keeps us from fights,Makes us not laugh, when we make legs to Knights:'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states;A medicine to obey our Magistrates;For we do live more free than you; no hate,No envy at one another's happy state,Moves us; we are equal every whit;Of land that God gives men, here is their wit,If we consider fully; for our bestAnd gravest man will with his main-house-jestScarce please you: we want subtlety to doThe city-tricks; lie, Hate, and flatter too:Here are none that can bear a painted show,Strike, when you wince, and then lament the blow;Who (like mills set the right way for to grind)Can make their gains alike with every wind:Only some fellows with the subdest pateAmongst us, may perchance equivocateAt selling of a horse; and that's the mostMethinks the little wit I had is lostSince I saw you; for wit is like a restHeld up at tennis, which men do the bestWith the best gamesters. What things have we seenDone at the Mermaid! heard words that have beenSo nimble, and so full of subtle flame,As if that every one (from whence they came)Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
John Fletcher
¶And had resolved to live a fool the restOf his dull life;—then when there hath been thrownWit able enough to justify the townFor three days past; wit that might warrant beFor the whole city to talk foolishlyTill that were cancelled; and, when we were gone,We left an air behind us; which aloneWas able to make the two next companies( Right witty; though but downright fools) more wise!When I remember this, and see that nowThe country gentlemen begin to allowMy wit for dry bobs, then I needs must cry,'I see my days of ballating grow nigh!'I can already riddle, and can singCatches, sell bargains: and I fear shall bringMyself to speak the hardest words I findOver as oft as any, with one wind,That takes no medicines. But one thought of theeMakes me remember all these things to beThe wit of our young men, fellows that showNo part of good, yet utter all they know ;Who , like trees of the guard, have growing souls,Only strong Destiny, which all controls,I hope hath left a better fate in storeFor me, thy friend, than to live ever poor,Banished unto this home. Fate once again,Brings me to thee, who canst make smooth and plainThe way of knowledge for me, and then I( Who have no good, but in thy company,)Protest it will my greatest comfort be,To acknowledge all I have, to flow from thee!Ben, when these Scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine!I'll drink thy Muse's health! thou shalt quaff mine!