Though need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not bettered much;
Yet ours, for want, hath not so loved the stage,
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate,
As, for it, he himself must justly hate:
To make a child new swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up in one beard and weed,
Past threescore years; or with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot, and half-foot words,