With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale,

Genius Is Of No Country.

Truth! Why Shall Every Wretch Of Letters Dare To Speak Truth Against His Betters! Let Ragged Virtue Stand Aloof, Nor Mutter Accents Of Reproof; Let Ragged Wit A Mute Become, When Wealth And Power Would Have Her Dumb.

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

In The First Seat, In Robe Of Various Dyes, A Noble Wildness Flashing From His Eyes, Sat Shakespeare: In One Hand A Wand He Bore, For Mighty Wonders Fam'd In Days Of Yore: The Other Held A Globe, Which To His Will Obedient Turn'd, And Own'd The Master's Skill: Things Of The Noblest Kind His Genius Drew, And Look'd Through Nature At A Single View: A Loose He Gave To His Unbounded Soul, And Taught New Lands To Rise, New Seas To Roll; Call'd Into Being Scenes Unknown Before, And Passing Nature's Bounds, Was Something More.