Come not to me again; but say to Athens,
     Timon hath made his everlasting mansion
     Upon the beached verge of the salt flood;
     Which once a-day with his embossed froth
     The turbulent surge shall cover.—­Thither come,
     And let my grave-stone be your oracle.

And again, Alcibiades, after reading his epitaph, says of him: 

     These well express in thee thy latter spirits: 
     Though thou abhorred’st in us our human griefs,
     Scorn’d’st our brain’s flow, and those our droplets, which
     From niggard nature fall; yet rich conceit
     Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye
     On thy low grave—­

thus making the winds his funeral dirge, his mourner the murmuring ocean; and seeking in the everlasting solemnities of nature oblivion of the transitory splendour of his lifetime.

CORIOLANUS

Shakespeare has in this play shown himself well versed in history and state affairs.  Coriolanus is a storehouse of political commonplaces.  Any one who studies it may save himself the trouble of reading Burke’s Reflections, or Paine’s Rights of Man, or the Debates in both Houses of Parliament since the French Revolution or our own.  The arguments for and against aristocracy or democracy, on the privileges of the few and the claims of the many, on liberty and slavery, power and the abuse of it, peace and war, are here very ably handled, with the spirit of a poet and the acuteness of a philosopher.  Shakespeare himself seems to have had a leaning to the arbitrary side of the question, perhaps from some feeling of contempt for his own origin; and to have spared no occasion of baiting the rabble.  What he says of them is very true:  what he says of their betters is also very true, though he dwells less upon it.—­ The cause of the people is indeed but little calculated as a subject for poetry:  it admits of rhetoric, which goes into argument and explanation, but it presents no immediate or distinct images to the mind, ‘no jutting frieze, buttress, or coigne of vantage’ for poetry ‘to make its pendant bed and procreant cradle in’.  The language of poetry naturally falls in with the language of power.  The imagination is an exaggerating and exclusive faculty:  it takes from one thing to add to another:  it accumulates circumstances together to give the greatest possible effect to a favourite object.  The understanding is a dividing and measuring faculty:  it judges of things, not according to their immediate impression on the mind, but according to their relations to one another.  The one is a monopolizing faculty, which seeks the greatest quantity of present excitement by inequality and disproportion; the other is a distributive faculty, which seeks the greatest quantity of ultimate good, by justice and proportion.  The one is an aristocratical, the other a republican faculty.  The principle of poetry is a very anti-levelling