Cribb’d from Boccaccio’s self, or Chaucer’s pages dark?
In later days, the hands,
Or rather quills, of Jonson, Beaumont too,
Have serv’d to make a hash of what this
William Shakespeare drew!
And I alone of all the wits can show it;
For am I not the Critic of our Poet?
A thought occurs—it is not always so
Since my poor brains are like my means, too low;
And when I want them sharp, alas! they’re slow!