But in kind silence spare his rival's shame:—
Yet I in vain that author would suppress,
What can't be greater, cannot be made less:
Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,
And to himself great Agamemnon name.
Should Shakespeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's smile,
E'en Shakespeare's self would curse this barren isle:
But if that reigning star propitious shine,
And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine;
E'en I, by far the meanest of your age,