Upon Master Fletcher's Incomparable Plays.

Apollo sings, his harp resounds: give room,     For now behold the golden pomp is come,     Thy pomp of plays which thousands come to see     With admiration both of them and thee.     O volume! worthy, leaf by leaf and cover,     To be with juice of cedar wash'd all over;     Here words with lines and lines with scenes consent     To raise an act to full astonishment;     Here melting numbers, words of power to move     Young men to swoon and maids to die for love.     Love lies a-bleeding here, Evadne, there     Swells with brave rage, yet comely everywhere;     Here's A mad lover, there that high design     Of King and no King, and the rare plot thine.     So that whene'er we circumvolve our eyes,     Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varieties     Ravish our spirits, that entranc'd we see     None writes love's passion in the world like thee.