Each haughty poet will infer, with ease,
  How much his wit must underwrite to please. 
  As some strong churl would, brandishing, advance
  The monumental sword that conquer’d France; 20
  So you, by judging this, your judgment teach,
  Thus far you like, that is, thus far you reach. 
  Since, then, the vote of full two thousand years
  Has crown’d this plot, and all the dead are theirs,
  Think it a debt you pay, not alms you give,
  And, in your own defence, let this play live. 
  Think them not vain, when Sophocles is shown,
  To praise his worth they humbly doubt their own. 
  Yet as weak states each other’s power assure,
  Weak poets by conjunction are secure. 30
  Their treat is what your palates relish most,
  Charm! song! and show! a murder and a ghost! 
  We know not what you can desire or hope
  To please you more, but burning of a Pope.

* * * * *

XXIV.

PROLOGUE TO “TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.”

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE GHOST OF SHAKSPEARE.

  See, my loved Britons, see your Shakspeare rise,
  An awful ghost, confess’d, to human eyes! 
  Unnamed, methinks, distinguish’d I had been
  From other shades, by this eternal green,
  About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,
  And with a touch their wither’d bays revive. 
  Untaught, unpractised in a barbarous age,
  I found not, but created first the stage. 
  And, if I drain’d no Greek or Latin store,
  ’Twas that my own abundance gave me more. 10
  On foreign trade I needed not rely,
  Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply. 
  In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold
  Some master strokes, so manly and so bold,
  That he who meant to alter, found ’em such,
  He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch. 
  Now, where are the successors to my name? 
  What bring they to fill out a poet’s fame? 
  Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age;
  Scarce living to be christen’d on the stage! 20
  For humour, farce—­for love they rhyme dispense,
  That tolls the knell for their departed sense. 
  Dulness might thrive in any trade, but this
  ’Twould recommend to some fat benefice: 
  Dulness, that in a playhouse meets disgrace,
  Might meet with reverence in its proper place. 
  The fulsome clench, that nauseates the town,
  Would from a judge or alderman go down;
  Such virtue is there in a robe and gown! 
  And that insipid stuff, which here you hate, 30
  Might somewhere else be call’d a grave debate: 
  Dulness is decent in the church and state. 
  But I forget that still ’tis understood,