Classic Poem

As Fate, which doth all human matters sway,
Makes proudest things grow up into decay,
And when they are to envied greatness grown,
She wantonly falls off, and throws them down;
So when our English Drama was at height,
And shin'd, and rul'd with majesty and might,
A sudden whirlwind threw it from its seat,
Deflower'd the groves, and quench'd the Muses' heat.
Yet, as in saints, and martyr'd bodies, when
They cannot call their blessed souls again
To earth, reliques and ashes men preserve,
And think they do but what blest they deserve;
So I, by my devotion led, aspire
To keep alive your noble vestal fire,
Honour this piece, which shews, Sir, you have been,
The last supporter of the dying scene;
And though I do not tell you, how you dress
Virtue in glories, and bold vice depress,
Nor celebrate your lovely Dutchess' fall,
Or the just ruin of your Cardinal ;
Yet this I dare assert, when men have nam'd
Jonson, the nation's laureat, the fam'd
Beaumont and Fletcher, he that wo' not see
Shirley the fourth, must forfeit his best eye.