Both in his page with master strokes abound:
His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle.
Bid us no longer at our nurses smile;
Of lost historians we almost complain,
Nor think it the creation of his brain.
Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance?
With his great Talbot[62] too he conquer'd France.
Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run
In great descendants, Shakespeare has but one;
And him, my lord, permit me not to name,