Beaumont's letter to Ben Jonson -- From the 1647 Beaumont and Fletcher folio
M. Francis Beaumonts Letter to Ben Johnson,
I lye and dreame of your full Mermaid wine. O we have water mixt with Claret Lees, Drinke apt to bring in dryer heresies, Then beere, good only for the Sonnets straine, With fustian metaphors to stuffe the braine, So mixt, that given to the thirstiest one, 'Twill not prove almes, unlesse he have the stone: I thinke with one draught mans invention fades, Two Cups had quite spoil'd Homers Illiades;
Lye where he will, and make him write worse yet; Fil'd with such moisture in most grievous qualmes, Did Robert Wisdome write his singing Psalmes; And so must I doe this, and yet I thinke It is a potion sent us downe to drinke, By speciall Providence, keeps us from fights, Makes us not laugh, when we make leggs to Knights. 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our States, A Medicine to obey our Magistrates:
No envy at one anothers happy state Moves us, we are all equall every whit: Of Land that God gives men here is their wit: If we consider fully, for our best, And gravest men will with his maine house jest, Scarse please you; we want subtilty to doe The Citie tricks, lye, hate, and flatter too: Here are none that can beare a painted show, Strike when you winch, and then lament the blow:
Can make their gaines alike with every winae: [Signature [Xxx3v], end page 166, catchword Only] Only some fellows with the subtil'st pate Amongst us, may perchance æquivocate At selling of a horse, and thats the most. Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you, for wit is like a rest Held up at Tennis, which men doe the best, With the best gamesters: What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been
As if that every one from whence they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolv'd to live a foole the rest Of his dull life; then when there hath been throwne Wit able enough to justifie the Towne For three dayes past, wit that might warrant be For the whole City to talke foolishly Till that were cancel'd, and when that was gone, We left an aire behind us, which alone,
Right witty; though but downright fools, more wise. When I remember this, and see that now The Country gentlemen begin to allow My wit for dry bobbs, then I needs must cry, I see my days of ballating grow nigh; I can already riddle, and can sing Catches, sell bargains, and I feare shall bring My self to speak the hardest words I find, Over as oft as any, with one wind,
Makes me remember all these things to be The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know: Who like trees of the Guard, have growing soules. Only strong destiny, which all controules, I hope hath left a better fate in store, For me thy friend, then to live ever poore, Banisht unto this home; fate once againe Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth & plain
Who have no good but in thy company, Protest it will my greatest comfort be To acknovvledge all I have to flovv from thee. Ben, vvhen these Scænes are perfect vvee'l taste vvine; Ile drink thy Muses health, thou shalt quaff mine. [Signature [Xxx4], end page 167, catchword The Maid in the Mill., EEBO 220/473] This text is reproduced from the folio image available on the Early English Books Online catalogue -- see EEBO link above.
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