Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
John Milton.
AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON.
On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine
Williams.
“What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones,”