As when a tree's cut down, the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot; So, from old Shakespeare's honoured dust, this day Springs up and buds a new-reviving play: Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art. He, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law; And is that nature which they paint and draw. Fletcher reached that which on his heights did grow, Whilst Jonson crept, and gathered all below. This did his love, and this his mirth, digest: One imitates him most, the other best. If they have since outwrit all other men, 'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's pen, The storm, which vanished on the neighbouring shore, Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to roar. That innocence and beauty, which did smile In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he. I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now That liberty to vulgar wits allow, Which works by magic supernatural things: But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's. Those legends from old priesthood were received, And he then writ, as people then believed. But if for Shakespeare we your grace implore, We for our theatre shall want it more: Who, by our dearth of youths, are forced to employ One of our women to present a boy; And that's a transformation, you will say, Exceeding all the magic in the play. Let none expect, in the last act, to find Her sex transformed from man to womankind. Whate'er she was before the play began, All you shall see of her is perfect man. Or, if your fancy will be farther led To find her woman—it must be a-bed.