“Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To Shakspeare gave as much, she could not give him more.”
Some lines near the end of the poem are singularly graceful and touching, and sank deep into the heart of Congreve.
“Already am I worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning the ungrateful stage
But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend
Against your judgment your departed friend.
Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue,