Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid?
Dear son of memory—great heir of fame,
Why all these little names tacked to thy name?
Thou may’st feel wonder and astonishment
At all this row about thy monument,
While to the shame of our dramatic art,
Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part.
Methinks, t’were well, blushing, to bring to book,
Praises so Empty, though so big they look,
And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving,